Stories of Fate, Masters and Servant
by Mr. Dot
Summary: A series of one-shot about the Heroic Spirits of the Fate Series. New situations, Servant and Masters that never met in the series interacting and so on and so on.
1. Chapter 1

Mordred was fighting. Like a meteor, like an avalanche, crashing though opposition without restraint. As blood painted the air at the savage rythm of her sword, she knew of the smirk twisting her features, but was powerless to smooth it away.

Battle was liberating.

Between the clashing of swords and the splintering of armours there were no doubts, no existencial, eternal weight of being undeserving, unwanted, unloved.

Her life was a continuous chase of an ideal of perfection, a continuous beating upon the armour of her skin, smoothing chinks, forcing a shape to take form against rebellious thoughts. Her mind never stopped wandering, from biting doubts, fluttering close to desperation, to exalted certainty of having managed to reach the distance, to show herself as the heir that she had to be, was destined to be, and then back again into the pit.

Only in battle it stopped. Not during the lonely nights passed as a silent guard, not during the long hours of study, not during the adventures across the lands, not during the relentless training, the curt conversations, the laughters of banquets, the concentration of the hunts, the elegant manners, the impeccable composure.

Only in the battle.

Only then, when her face was covered by steel, she could smirk like that, and let her savage soul out. It was unrestrained, fierce joy to pound into her chest, loud enough to drown out the awareness that even that, even that!, was a chink that would have, should have, been beaten away.

And still, she had to remember, she didn't need to think that anymore.

Mordred caught an enemy's blade with the back of her gauntlet, before crushing its owner with contemptous ease.

Yes, she didn't need to smooth anymore chinks, not now nor ever, never more. She had passed the test, she had proved herself as the stronger. Father, her beloved, hated Father, had turned his back at her, when he would have, should have!, extended his arm toward her and accept her as the true heir.

Rage, insensate rage flared as he remembered his silence, the way he had given her his back. Not a word, no aknowledgement, nothing. Only a cold, unfeeling wall of silence.

Rejection.

That word rang inside of her head as she swung her sword against another opponent, cleaving though weapon, armour and body alike.

Under her helmet, her teeth were gritted as she searched for more enemies to crush. One came running though her.

Rejected! Rejected! Rejected!

Father had had the gall to reject her, her! Her Son!, after all she had done and suffered, after all the hammerblows she had given to her armour, after all the love and admiration she had showered him with, after all, after everything she had lived through!

She deserved the throne; she had earned it, a thousand times!

It had been in that moment that she had really understood how deep Father's hatred for Morgana ran. It was so engrained, so all-enconpassing that even he, the Sun!, had been made blind to the obvious truth that she and only she was deserving of the throne,. It was hers, hers, hers!

Her blade came down savagely, the sheer impact of the blow making the earth splinter and explode.

As the opponent laid immobile before her, half-covered by the raised dust, she turned around, panting, searching for more enemies upon which to unleash her fury.

None came. That one was the last.

She tightened her grip on her weapon's handle, frustration and fury taking over her thoughts for a moment, before she forced herself to take back control.

It didn't matter anymore.

She had called upon the discontent and led her rebellion against the King. Wasn't another emblem of her worthiness, and of Father's falling behind, that so many had gathered to her banner? She had raised her head to take what it belonged to her by right, by blood, by everything! Father would have been forced to recognize her superiority, even if she had to add conquest to her rights!

She had been defeated, yes, Camelot had been destroyed, yes, but nothing of that would have ever happened, if only Father didn't let his hatred blind him to the truth. She had been in the right to enforce her claims, as they were just, and if Camelot's life was the price for her trying to make things right, well so be it! A true knight had to fight injustice at every turn, even if he had to sacrifice his own life for it. Even that was part of the code of the Round Table.

Suddenly, an attack, stronger and faster than all the others.

Her well-honed senses had picked it up, and it found her guard raised.

Energy enveloped her, flushing across her armour like a pack of hungry dogs, searching for weakspots, before dissipating harmlessly. Dust covering her vision, Mordred waited for the following attacks, her heart pounding savagely.

Nothing came.

The dust settled, but she was still in a defensive stance, waiting, her excitament slowly turning to wariness.

She scoffed it away.

"Well?" She called, her tone derisive. "Surprise attacks are everything you can do? Come out and fight like a true warrior, you…"

The words died on her tongue.

It wasn't the figure appearing between the smoke; it wasn't the great energy that came bearing over her; it was the aura, the presence that seemed to engulf all of its battlefield, like a beacon signaling that something had arrived, and now everything was done.

She had felt it only when a certain person entered the battlefield.

Artoria Pendragon stepped out of the dust, casting her gaze all around the battlefield. A flick of her weapon and the smoke was blown away, the sun appearing behind to silouhette her figure.

And still, it wasn't her.

Mordred remembered a lithe, steel-covered king, with cold, unflinching eyes set into an impossibly youthful face. She remembered hair as golden as the grain fluttering under the wind of summer. She remembered the sun, radiating its light upon everyone and everything.

This one was tall and mature and… dark. Black, cruel armour covering her frame, a wicked spear held with ease.

It wasn't her Father. It couldn't be.

And still, it was her.

The way she swept the battlefield with her gaze, eyes lighting with the knowledge of the path to victory, the way she held her weapon, how her fingers closed around its handle, her stance, her aura, the sureness emanating from her figure.

From under her helmet, when she was still only a knight, Mordred had sneaked so many glances in the direction of her Father, taking in so many of her habits and ways, that she thought to know her as well as her own sword. Adoring her from afar, fretfully searching in the mirror for signs that could prove of her closeness to the King, she had learned everything she could from her post; and now, everything returned to her as she watched that foreign figure.

Even that connection, that she had dared to hope it existed, but never to actually consider, that it could exist between Father and Son, that could bring them to find each other even in the most caothic of battlefield, even from the other side of the world, that little voice in her head that spoke just before the King entered, without even her steps to signal her arrival. Even that spoke to her in that moment.

But it couldn't be.

The King's gaze moved upon her, and she felt her heart start to pound as it glinted with affection.

"Mordred."

The Knight of Rebellion flinched.

The voice of the King. It couldn't be mistaken. But… but…

Almost like she could hear her thoughts, the King's features softened. She raised her spear, pointed it to the sky. The light of the sun glinted upon it, making the sygils engraved on its surface shine sfotly.

Mordred felt a surge of terror inside of her. The Holy Lance. For a moment, she felt its bite on her chest, but that impression was quickly subsided by tunnel recognition. Only one person could wield Rhongomyniad.

The King smiled softly.

"It's me, Mordred. I am Artoria."

The realization hit Mordred like a hammerblow. It was really her, there couldn't be any mistake. It was really her Father.

She moved a step forward, then faltered. Emotions welled inside of her. A thousand time she had immagined what another meeting with her beloved, hated father would be like. And now, it was happening.

Anger, outrage, they flared inside of her. She tightened the grip upon her sword. She was ready to attack, here and there, with no words, ready to… to…

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Her voice came out shaky, and she hated it, but she had to know.

Never, never!, Father had looked at her like that.

The King cocked her head by a side, her eyes still glinting with that cursed, soft light. "In what else manner should i look at my son? Aren't you? My son, Mordred?"

Mordred felt her knees go weak. The flames inside of her faltered.

"What… What are you saying…"

"We had… our divergences." Pain flashed across the King's features.

Understatement of the century, but Mordred, busy to keep herself from wobbling, couldn't find the breath to speak up.

"I have not been the best of fathers, and you deserved more than what i gave you." The King's voice was sorrowful. "Everything ended in the worst way." She tensed for a moment, before smiling weakly. "But now… we are here, once again, you and I. My son…"

"Wait wait wait wait!" Without even thinking, Mordred had raised her hand to stop those words. It briefly flashed though her mind that it was a grave offence to interrupt while the King was talking, but she was far too dismayed to care. "After everything you did! After everything that has happened! Do you… do you want to just make it up? Just… just like that?!" She felt that she should have been offended, furious, but instead all that she felt was utter dismay.

The King turned serious, even solemn, and Mordred felt a pang of something that could be called pain at recognizing the expression that she always wore when she was about to give an important speech.

"I… understand what you are saying. But…" She frowned, and Mordred was hit by the intensity of the determination in her eyes. "I am ready for it. I don't say that it must happen all at once." She raised a hand to stop Mordred from interrupting, and she did just that. "But… can we at least try? I feel that i have been given another chance with you, my son, and i… i don't want for it to go to waste. Can you understand me?"

Her smile was sad, and Mordred was hit by it like it was a catapult boulder. She wobbled, almost risking to fall over. Only moments ago, she was fighting, rage and certainty in her chest for her role in the world, and now… now, the King, whom she had always longed to listen to while talking with honesty, whom sadness, hopes, dreams, she had always wished to listen to; that same King was talking to her like she had always wanted to.

And she had called her Son.

Euphoria, distrust and confusion swirled inside of her head, and she found herself at complete, total loss of what to do. Even her rage, that had always been her guiding beacon, was gone, its embers smothered.

A small chuckle called her back from the maelstrom in her head. She blinked, realizing only then that she was staring straight at Father, and, even more exceptional, she had been the one to chuckle!

"Always that gaze." The King smiled, a hand raised before her mouth. Her eyes gleamed with amused affection. "You always did that. When you were at loss at what to do, you looked at me, expecting for an answer to come. Always."

Mordred felt his mouth open in wonder.

"How…"

"How did i know?" The King's smile softened. "I always knew when you were watching me. Those inquisitive, adoring eyes of yours. You were always watching,. Why, i remember that time when the Green Knight broke into the castle. You watched at me with an irate gaze, waiting only for my gesture to cut him down. And you were so curious to know what my words would have been." Mordred blinked. Was that… mirth? For her? "Your gaze upon me… it always gave me strenght. Because i knew that you, one of the finest knights of the Realm, was watching me, and you put your trust in me."

Mordred felt her breath get lodged inside of her throat. Father knew… Father knew that she was always watching her? And that… that comforted her?

"There are have been mistakes between us. Terrible mistakes. But, my son, please." Mordred flinched at the pleading, pleading!, intensity of the King words. Father was pleading! "Would you take my hand, at least in this new life that has been given to us? Would you allow your Father to try and put remedy to the mistakes of the past?"

With a blur of movement, before Mordred's widening eyes, the spear was thrown away, and the King, the Father, extended her hand toward her in a beckoning gesture. She remained like that, a black form silouhetted before the sun, waiting.

Trembling, Mordred opened her mouth, then closed it. Feelings welled like a storm inside of her chest, knotting whatever word she could think to pronunce. The King was exposed. It would have been so easy for her to close the distance and stab her through the chest, just like she had done with her spear. Wasn't that in her rights too? Find vengeance for her unjust death, unjust rejection? How could Father come to her like that, expecting her to forgive, to… forget, like nothing had happened. No, the rage, the hatred, she had to remember them. She had to wield them once again and make her vengeance fall.

Yes. Yes! A trust, straight through the heart. Quick and simple.

She tightened her grip upon Clarent, tensed her muscles…

…and couldn't do it.

Her fingers didn't want to close her hold, her legs didn't want to move, her body refused to summon the power.

She just couldn't do it.

Rage? Hatred? What a joke they were before the desperate hope welling inside of her chest, making her feel like she was about to soffocate. Father had thrown away her weapon, Father had smiled to her, Father had called her Son. She wanted this, she wanted it more than anything else. No matter what had happened, no matter what she had suffered, endured, being made to pieces from. She wanted for this to happen, more than anything else she had ever wanted.

"F-Father…" She felt tears welling in his eyes, and she didn't care.

The King smiled gently to her. "Let go of your weapon and armour, my Son. Let us embrace at last."

Mordred didn't even stop to think; Clarent disappeared in a flash of light, as well as her armour, and, finally free of that horrible, horrible weight, she ran.

She flew, and her Father was there to catch her before she touched earth once again.

As Artoria's arms came to embrace her, Mordred buried her face in her Father's shoulder Without caring if that was improper or not, without caring of anything, because the moment that she had waited for for the entirety of her life was there, was finally there!

"Father… Father…" She sobbed, letting tears that she had always wanted to shed finally run free.

"My Son… my beautiful, unreplaceable, only Son…" The King murmured, her voice dripping with emotion, her hands keeping her tight.

Mordred was sure that her heart would burst any moment now, but she wouldn't have cared. Her Father's smell, her Father's touch, her Father holding her tight, her Father telling her those words, her Father Father Father. She was there and that was finally happening. She felt like she had passed through winter, and only then the warmth of the summer sun had come to take away the ice.

She sobbed and sobbed, shivering without control, for the first time of her life just happy, without any guilt, without any remorse, just finally happy.

She didn't know how much time she passed between her Father's arms. It could be a moment or maybe a hundred years, she didn't care, but eventually, as the tide of emotions receded, the call of property engrained in her reared its head. She wanted to ignore it, to remain buried in her Father's embrace for another forever, but she ended up on obeying.

Flustered, she drew back slightly.

"I…" She bumbled, not daring to look at her Father even as she kept hold of her robe. She what? Was she sorry for all that messy demeanor? Was she happy as never fucking before? Was she unsure if that was a dream or not? She hadn't a clue herself. Only thing she knew was that she felt like a pudding that had just been thoroughly pounded by a hammer; exhausted and full of life at the same time, if such a thing was even possible.

A slender finger tapped under her chin and, without thinking, she obeyed its motion, raising her head. The smile of the King was as radious as the sun as she looked at her.

"Look at you." She said, eyes gleaming. "You made yourself into such a mess."

Mordred stiffened, noticing only then what a disaster her face had become.

"Yeah, i… ehm…" She averted her gaze, blushing furiously. Nice job, snotting away before the King, no, before her Father, like that. She had to restrain a flinch at the idea of having stained her.

"Here." The small handkerchief appeared in her vision like a snowflake. Understanding what was happening, the sheer audacity of it!, her eyes widened.

"W-wait, my King, i-i don't need to…" Her eyes jumping from the King's smiling face to the little piece of cloth like it was a gold crown, she almost flailed her hands in panic, without no idea of what to do to stop it.

The King just chuckled and shook her head.

"Hush, now. Stay still."

Her tone was kind, but accepted no reply, and Mordred felt himself obeying immediately, jumping to attention like a toy soldier.

She was sure that her face was about to take fire, but somehow she managed to keep herself still as the King cleaned the mess she had done of herself.

"Here." She said, drawing back, smiling gently. "Much better now."

Mordred, struggling between absolute happiness and burning embarassment, just nodded as stiff as a board.

There was flick of motion of the King's hand, and the handkerchief disappeared just as it had appeared.

Still, the King's gaze didn't seem to want to leave her. Mordred squirmed a little bit, feeling those eyes bore into her. She had a thousand questions and the terror that by speaking she could somehow ruin that moment.

She swallowed.

"M-my King…" She hesitated, then, as the King nodded gently: "F-Father…" Being finally able to say it made something spring inside of her soul. She had to stop herself from actually start to bounce.

"Y-you…" A horde of words tried to push their way through her throat, and for a moment she had the impression of choking. "You are different… b-bigger…"

She blushed, damning herself mentally. Of all the things she could have said, that had to be the lamest, for fuck's sake.

Still, the Kind didn't seem bothered by it. Instead, she tilted her head, her features softening ever so slightly. Mordred had the impression of feeling spring in the air.

"Yes." The King nodded slowly. "I am much different from the last time we meet." A flash of pain traversed her eyes, so quick that anybody else would have missed it, but not Mordred, that felt a stab right where her heart was. It lasted just for a moment, and was replaced by solemnity. "What i have passed through, what we have passed through… it has changed me. Now i can see much than before i couldn't; everything that i should have kept close, everything that i should have protected and cherished. You, my son, and much more that should have been done differently…"

Mordred felt her breath get caught in her throat as the King passed a finger along her jaw. It was slender, long, covered in dark armour, slightly cold. The words of the King entranced her.

"I have a new title now." Artoria said, her tone almost curious. Her finger retreated, and she smiled to Mordred. "Do you want to know it?"

Wordless, Mordred nodded. She could still feel where the King's finger had trailed upon her skin, like a line of fire.

"The King of Storms." Something of steel passed into the King's eyes. "That's my new title."

Mordred found herself repeating those words. The King of…? But, why…?

A gentle squeeze of her hand cut off her questions. The King had taken her hand between one of her one.

"A step at a time, alright?" Her gaze had become soft once again, and Mordred couldn't but nod with eagerness. Yes! She was ready for it!

"The old me could barely understand you." The King said, becoming serious. Her hands gently fell upon her shoulders, and Mordred, even while her attention was focused upon her Father's words, couldn't but notice how large they were, so different from those she had learned to see while gripping Excalibur. "I was too focused upon myself, too focused upon… lies…" Anger flashed through her features, rapidly covered by sadness. "I made a mistake, my son." Her tone was sorrowful, and Mordred felt it stab through her heart. "I believed to those that said they meant to show me the way, that they were my allies, my… teachers…"

Mordred winced at the deep coldness contained in those words. Never, she had seen the King express such disdain and, while a part of her felt guiltily euphoric at hearing her real thoughts, the rest was taken by deep dismay.

"I was supposed to walk a path of light and steel, to become something that forgot what human meant, and nobody ever told me that that path's end was a precipice into the dark."She turned at her, and Mordred had to repress the instinct to flinch. Those eyes were as cold as she remembered them, like the sun had turned to ice. "But now i see…" The King murmured. "Now i see the true path. And the first thing i see is you." She smiled kindly. Mordred felt her heart taking speed. "My son. Now i know what your feelings were, now i know."

Mordred felt the hands' grip on her shoulder tightens ever so slightly, but was too entranced to notice.

"You loved me, isn't?"

"I…" Mordred swallowed. She felt her throat dry. "Yes." She confessed. She wanted to drop her gaze, but a finger came to her chin, stopping her motion. She flinched, but obeyed. "More than anything else. Father, you were, no, you are my Sun. Everything i did, i did it to try and to be like you, to… to… make you proud of me." Saying those words felt like dropping boulders that had nested inside of her chest for a hundred thousand years. Beyond everything she had told herself during the long years of service, that was the true reason of her motions, of everything she did and accomplished as a knight.

The King nodded.

"Yes, i couldn't see it at the time. I was blind."

Mordred bit her tongue.

Something that she wasn't sure about sparked into the King's eyes.

"Then, you hated me, isn't?"

Mordred winced. She watched the King with dismay, but Artoria just stared at her, that strange gleam that she had noticed mixing with kindness and expectation.

"I-I…" Mordred was at loss. The rage and hatred that had pushed her at the time of her revolt seemed so petty, so stupid now, like the tantrum of a foolish child that didn't know what to do but just break down everything. "I… i thought that i was the r-right heir, and that the Kingdom should have me as a king, because like that maybe things would have gone better with everybody that weren't happy with you and…"

She was blabbering, she knew it, and she knew that her Father wouldn't have been fooled by it.

As expected, the King shook her head gently.

"No more lies." She said, but her eyes were still filled with that affection that melted her heart. "You and i have been fed too much of it during our lives, my son. Let's speak truths from now on."

Mordred nodded stiffly, but the words refused to come out.

"It was much easier than that, wasn't?" The King continued. "You loved me, and what you wanted was a single act of aknowledgment. After all the efforts, the frustration, the fear, the coldness, all you wanted was that the sun turned at you, just once, and gave its hand to you. Wasn't it like that, my son?"

Mordred nodded, feeling her throat dry.

The King continued, her tone even. "But the sun didn't give you nothing, not even a glance. It left you alone, in the darkness, and so you fell to rage, and your great love, became great hatred." The corners of her mouth feel slightly, but it was enough for Mordred to feel her sadness on her chest.

"Yes." She murmured. "That's how it has gone." What was she supposed to say? To ask for forgiveness? After everything? To beg and implore? She still thought that part of what she did was justified, but now that certainty didn't feel as stable as it was before.

The Kings smile was soft. "Yes."

That simple, Three-letters words seemed to echo into the air like a faraway peal of thunder. Mordred felt it resound inside of her ribcage, and a shiver ran across her back. Silence fell afterwards, and it was as heavy as before a storm.

"Love and hate." The words came out slow from the King's mouth, as wisps of stormclouds. "I understand much of them now, my son. I touched them both, just as before i embraced discipline, cold cold discipline. Now, i know that they are the faces of the same coin, going hand to hand, and so easy for them to switch and melt together" Something that could be called humour flashed across he gaze. "Ironic, that the son would learn such an important lesson before the father."

Mordred squirmed a bit. It was her, or it was getting colder? But still she couldn't avert her gaze from her Father's. Those eyes looked as deep as a pit, and they were dragging her in.

"And since we are now talking about truth, i will tell you now one of my one, my son."

Somewhere, a thunder boomed. Mordred didn't know how, but she knew it.

"It's difficult for me right now."

Mordred blinked. "Difficult, Father?"

The King nodded. She seemed to be looking far away. "When i spoke about trying again, between us, i was truthful, i really was. I thought much about you, and i really thought that everything could be mended, that my son deserved another chance, but…" She turned to her. There was something intense in her eyes, something hard. "Now that i have you, here, now, between my arms… it's difficult to keep on having a hold of that resolution."

Mordred's eyes widened. She noticed only in that moment how the King's fingers had reached her neck; moving, tracing over her skin a symbol, leaving… something… that was… was putting roots in her. Befuddled, she made to raise her hand and touch it, but her wrist was caught in an iron vice. Grimacing with pain and surprise, she watched how her Father's hand had grabbed hold of her wrist. She turned to look at her. The King was watching her impassively.

"F-Father?" Mordred winced. The thing on her neck was expanding like a water stain. With dismay, she felt it reach at her magic circuits, caressing them with shadowy fingers.

She flinched as pain exploded from her wrist. The King's other hand squeezed her shoulder, sending burning jolts through her.

In alarm, her instincts as a warrior taking over, she tried to free herself, but found with fright that she couldn't summon any power. The thing flowing through her was shutting down her magic circuits one after the other.

"Father, what are you…" Her words were cut short from a hand roughly grabbing hold of her face, shutting her mouth and painfully squishing her cheeks.

Eyes widening, she grabbed the wrist of the hand, trying to free herself. Easier to try and move a mountain. The King's arm felt as solid as a steel pole, and she couldn't summon any power against it.

Dread started to rise, together with the awareness that, without magic, she, like King Arthur had been, was just a human with a fifteen year old body. And only in that moment she noticed how tall and imposing the King was, how large her hands were.

She never knew what feeling defenceless was, and so she didn't know what name to give to the feeling of dread sprouting in her chest; all she knew was that it was horrible. As a Knight of the Round Table, she had faced death again and again, in many forms and aspects, but always with her sword and rage in hand, never defenceless. Now, she was prey, and that sent fear running through her veins.

And still, what really frightened her was the way the King watched her.

Cold, icy anger.

The King never got angry. Not when she had heard the challenge of the King of the North, boasting that he would add her own skin to his cloak made of fallen kings'; not when it had been brought to her the new of Gwynevere's betrayal and Lancelot's flight; and not not at Camlann, before her treacherous Son, breathing her last.

Resigned, sad, bent, but never, never!, angry.

And that made feel terror's cold bite to Mordred.

"My own son…" The King's voice was like the hiss of winter. "Betraying me… killing me…" She gave a squeeze. Mordred whimpered, her movements becoming more frantic. "Why did you betray me, Mordred?" She asked, pain pushing through the coldness. "You, my own son, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Why did you betray your father? Everything i did, everything i built. All my life. You. Burned it. All. To the ground."

Mordred let out a choked whimper as she was raised from earth like a doll. She just managed to flail her arm once before the hand already holding her wrist came to catch them both in an iron grip.

"My Camelot. Destroyed. The Round Table that i had built. You just waltzed in and made it all crumble to bits. Years and years of patient work. All of it. Destroyed in a moment. You… runt."

The brutal coldness of the King's tone pierced Mordred like a hundred ice knives. Distress and panic inundated her like a torrent, but she couldn't free herself, no matter how much she struggled.

"You are my Son. Your life, your skill, your own claim to the throne. They all came from me. You are born from me. I am the root and you're the leaf; you owe everything you are to me, and you destroyed me and stomped over everything i cared for."

Mordred tried to kick, but a shock suddenly passed through her lower body. Her muscles tensed for a moment, before going limp. With terror, she realized that she couldn't feel her legs anymore.

"Why did you rebel, Mordred?" The King brought her forward, until her eyes were right in front of her. Mordred wanted to escape from what she saw in that ruthless gaze, but couldn't move. "Because you received my rejection?" The King's voice fell to a irate hiss. "Have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, that moment was a source of conflict to me as much it was to you? That i was as much full of my own troubled thoughts?" Mordred wanted for the King to scream in anger. It would have been a lot better than that terrible hiss. "What should i have done, tell me. Hand over the Kingdom to you? Just like that? To you, that had no experience of govern? You, that were conceived out of wedlock? You, with no claim but the words of a witch?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "That was a matter much bigger than yours or my personal thoughts, kid. A kingdom isn't passed like it is a piece of cheap jewelry. The crown must be earned, and you were too much green even to think about it." Mordred didn't want to hear anymore. Each word was like a knife in her chest. She let out a choked whimper, but the King didn't even seem to notice. "But maybe in the end, it wasn't really the kingdom that you wanted, mh? No, maybe what you wanted was just a sign of aknowledgment from me. Just one, isn't? Just a smile, or a gesture of friendship, a stupid napkin, anything." She clenched her jaw, and that most simple demostration of rage was for Mordred a punch in the gut. "Why didn't you just waited, you dumb kid? Why didn't you just think that maybe even i would have been disconcerted by your revelation?That i was distressed, confused, befuddled by your sudden revelation? That i would need time to think about it? That maybe even i, the great Perfect King, would need the benefit of the doubt once in a lifetime? That i was a fucking human myself?" Her tone never raised above a murmur, but suddenly it lost its cold anger. "I would have returned to you, you moron." Mordred stiffened. There was pain in the King's eyes, more pain than she had ever seen. "I would have serached for you. I would have talked to you. I would have even called you son. I would have. I would. Have!" She gave a squeeze. Mordred had to repress from whimpering again. She felt blood on her face. "And instead, you… you…"

Death. In her Father's gaze. There was death for her. Mordred could feel her anger pressing over her like a mountain. She would have killed her, there and then.

In a panic, horrified, feeling like a thousand spears were piercing her, Mordred sobbed and whimpered, flailed and squirmed, to no avail. She wasn't ready to die. She didn't want to, not like that. Not with those words drilling a hole in her head, shredding to bit her conscience.

"And yet…"

The voice of the King made her pause. Trembling, she opened her eyes, realizing only then to have squeeze them shut.

The King was watching her. Her iron grip hadn't slackened in the slightest, but the pain and anger were gone, leaving only an almost thoughtful mask.

"I should ground you to bits, with my bare hands. Here and now. That's what half of my heart is telling me." She said, her voice flat. "But… the other half…"

Mordred felt with a shiver as one of the finger holding her face moved upward, shying dangerously close to her left eye. She saw it like a black stain worming inside of her visual. She wanted to swallow, but her muscles refused to move.

"You said i was changed." The King's voice was a thoughtful hum. "Yes, i am. Much. Do you want to know what it changed me?"

Mordred felt the answer creep up up her throat, but she refused to even try to move.

The King seemed to read it in her eyes. "Yes. Death changed me." She smiled slightly. "My death hasn't been kind, you know. I have suffered much, bleeding away while laying under a tree. Nobody came for me. I called, feebly, again and again, but nobody came."

Mordred felt those words twist in her stomach like a sword. She didn't want to hear. She wanted to run, close her ears, and just run away and never stop.

"It happened just at the end, i think." The King's tone was full of quiet marvel, like she was recounting an old fairy tale. "My eyes were heavy, and i was tired, so tired. So, i slept. I fell into an abyss, but there wasn't darkness. It was all light, bone-like light. I couldn't feel my legs, i couldn't feel my arms, but i could still feel Excalibur, its blade touching my skin. It was still there." She paused, her look far away. Mordred felt a morbid curiosity fight with her horror. "Then, it came." The King's words came slowly. "It's a bit difficult to explain. It was like the light sorrounding me was a voice, a music, a sound. It was light, enveloping me, but it was music too. The voice of light." Mordred felt the finger touch the edge of her eye, tapping on her skin lamost absented-mindedly. "It didn't ask questions. It just… plunged into me, into Excalibut. Because the blade was me, and i was the blade. Yes. It… changed me. First, the flesh. Then, the spirit. I became… new. Then, to my heart." The King's hand let go of Mordred's wrists, her gaze falling slightly as she brought it to her chest. Mordred was too entranced to be happy from both, or notice the burning on her skin. "It tried to yank it away." The King's voice became cold steel. "It tried to steal it, from me. After everything i had done, everything i had suffered. Not only i had to die alone. Now, even this it was happening. My heart! My own heart!" The hand hovering over her chest clutched into a fist. Outrage emanated from her like a dark cloud. "Oh, and it was happening. Bit by bit. It was being yanked away, and as it happened, i was changing. I was becoming… a Lion." She paused, something enigmatic passing through her eyes, before continuing: "Oh, i struggled. I got angry. Even this i was to endure? Even after being dead? Oh, i thought not. There was still place for me to act. I could feel it. I knew it. And i did it." She turned to look at the entranced Mordred. The knight winced. The King's eyes were blazing with a cold flame. "I chose." She said, like it was a really simple thing. "Not to be a Lion, but to be a stormcloud. And i was reborn."

Their gazes looked for a moment, the King's filled with something that could be exaltation, Mordred's with confused horror.

"I always strived to be a good king, my son." There was almost regret in the King's voice. "Every moment of my life i have beaten upon my flaws, trying to forge myself into the shape that i thought it was right. Like a armour, no, like a sword. I thought that human feelings weren't needed for someone that had to answer such a high calling; to be the Perfect King! No, each and all human flaws had to be beaten away. I had to make myself as Excalibur was. Only golden light had to remain. The perfect blade." She snorted softly. "I was so mistaken. No, no good can eventually comes from such a path, only ruin, and so it happened." She looked at her, and Mordred saw once again a sort of regret flicker in her eyes. "I wanted to be a merciful king, maybe hard, but just. I wanted to shield my comrades from every weight. I wanted to be the pillar to support everything, and i thought that, even if everything would fail, honor and loyalty would not, that my comrades would understand and follow me. They haven't." Bitterness. Mordred felt it like a lump of sludge on her throat. "Now? Well…" A shiver ran along Mordred's back. "Now i think that maybe my subjects will have to suffer a little bit. Not too much. Just a little bit. To learn, you see? What i have learnt. A good King must be a teacher too." She smiled softly. "And since loyalty and honor hadn't been enough, maybe they will, if reinforced with of touch of fear and the iron gauntlet, we'll see."

Mordred frantically struggled to understand the actual weight of those words, but her struggle was cut short by the King yanking her upwards like she was a doll. Mordred let out a muffled sound as the iron fingers scratched at her flesh. Ignoring her distress, the King walked, carrying her with a single hand. Mordred felt tension ran through her arms, and her muscles slackened, losing every sensation.

"And this brings us to you. Ah, my son." The finger scratched just beside her eye. Mordred felt a bead of sweat on her forehead. "You ruined everything, and still i think that maybe you were just the instrument of a destiny already in motion. You gave the last blow to a structure already about to crumble." The fond smile she gave her made Mordred shiver. "You showed me the right path to follow, even if it was at the cost of my kingdom and my life, and for this, despite everything, i am in debt to you." She watched her with intensity for a moment, before shaking her head. "Oh, my son. Words are too small of a instrument for me to conveywhat my feelings are. You, my son, my only, beautiful, unreplaceable son. The leaf of my root. My son. Born from me and always following me. The one who saved me from my lonely path. My destroyer. The despoiler of everything i strived to build, of everything i ever cared for. My murderer. Oh, my beloved daughter, how i love you. Oh, my hated son, how i despise you." She paused, watching her with a terrible intensity.

Eventually, she smiled gently to the wide-eyes Mordred. "Hatred and love. They can be so close. I have learned my lesson too, see?"

She took a couple of steps, looking thoughtful.

"So, a decision is needed." She began. "It's bewildering, really. Part of me wants to just crush you and be done with it. The other wants me to embrace you and never let you go. What a though choice, really."

Barely being able to breath now, Mordred couldn't but try to shy away from that finger probing close, so close, to her eye.

The King's appraising gaze upon her was like a boulder of ice, and, bound, weak, and with no sword in hand, for the first time, Mordred found herself with nothing to do but pray and hope.

The silence of the King lasted for a couple of moments, or maybe for an eternity, but, eventually, she smiled, with kindness.

"Oh, it's not a tough choice at all, in the end." She murmured.

Mordred saw the world swirl, and she found herself crushed between her Father's arms, her head pinned against the other's chest.

"My child. I really cannot bring myself to kill you in the end." She heard the King say, from somewhere above her. She would have liked to move, to struggle, but her thoughts were a mess, her body not responding to her commands. "In the end, you, and only you are the only one that can really understand what is passing through my soul right now. Hatred, and love. Beyond death, beyond ruin and betrayal, you're the only one that can really understand me, and i am the only one that can really understand you."

Mordred was yanked upwards, and found herself staring into the King's amused eyes.

"The time of needless sacrifices is over, my son. A King's life is one of duty, but enough is enough. I won't lose you." She leaned forward, until her forehead touched Mordred's. The armourless knight had her breath caught in her throat.

"You aren't ready to be my heir, not yet, but you will grow, and you will learn." The King's voice caressed her face like a storm's breath. "I will teach you. And this is your first lesson. Never let your emotions spoil your will. Choices are too much of a treasure to be consumed carelessly."

She remained like that for a moment, a fond smile on her face. Just when Mordred was sure she was going to soffocate, the world spinned again. She heard a chuckle come from the blur, but it couldn't be her Father laughing. She didn't ever hear her Father laugh, not like that.

When the world stopped spinning, she was between her Father's arms, held above the ground, the King smiling kindly at her.

"F-father…" Mordred managed to croak out. She couldn't feel her jaw anymore, and she felt liquid across her cheeks.

"Hush." The King shushed her with gentle firmness. "We had enough words for today. Rest now."

Mordred stiffened as a current ran through her. She tensed for a moment, before melting on her Father's arms. A heavy daze fell upon her confused thoughts, her eyelids becoming heavy as lead.

She wanted to protest, she wanted to say, to do anything, but she was too sleepy to even feel fear, and she was sure that a Knight of the Round Table should't feel fear.

"Sleep, my son." The King said from the rapidly blurring world. "When you'll wake up, you will find a better world waiting for you. I won't say that i forgive you, not yet, but in time we'll both forget our hatred, and only the better side of the coin will remain. You will learn to love the new me, and i will keep you safe and cherish you forever. Because you're my beautiful, unreplaceable son, and nobody can take you away from me."

Those last words seemed to be brought away from the wind, keeping on being repeated again and again in Mordred's head. It was possible to be horrified, happy, joyful, terrified and a thousand more things at the same time? She didn't think it was, but she didn't think, not even in her wildest dreams, that the day would come for her to hear her Father speak those words, words that had engulfed her in joy and brutal terror at the same time. But maybe that was just a dream. Yes, maybe she was just dreaming, and soon she would wake up from that nightmare.

Sleep was taking over, and even those last thoughts melted away in a fizzle of colored sparks. The last thing that she thought before the darkness took her was a question for what her choices had unleashed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sieg watched dubiously the pan. The glob of batter and chocolate splattered to the center of it looked like what it would remain from a blast zone. He turned to a side, receiving an encouraging look from Jeanne.

The girl's doubt-free, smiling face sparked a twinge of guilt inside of him, but he said nothing, returning to focus on the mess he was sure he was doing.

Truth was, he never even considered the idea of having to cook anything, let alone pancakes. Not like he disregarded the type of work, it was just that he only considered himself just a warrior.

Not like he had time for anything else, though.

Even so, he couldn't deny that he felt more at ease with a sword in hand, using what spare time he had to train or, at best, to study. It felt… less wasteful of a time? He really didn't want to be too haughty, but he couldn't but think that.

Still, Jeanne had a way to ask things. He wasn't sure what it was or why, but somehow he couldn't say no to her, not when she smiled and clutched her hands before her chest.

And so, the glob.

"Now try to turn it."

Following Jeanne's gentle instruction, he took up the spatula. It felt light and fragile, so much that he almost feared of seeing it bend between his fingers.

Trying to be as gentle as possible, he pushed the instrument under the glob. The smacking sounds he received as he tried to dislodge it from the pan wasn't the most pleasant, but he ignored it. Eventually, the glob gave way, and he raised it up, taking care to keep it over the pan.

"Well done!" Jeanne clapped her hands once, to which he nodded briskly. Her radiant smile managed somehow to make him feel like even that little task was something worth celebrating.

Now, to spin it. He wanted to do it with a single, smooth gesture, a quick movement of the wrist, like he did during swordplay, and…

The glob shot upward like a rocket. It smacked against the ceiling, and remained there, another perfectly round plate of pastel together with the previous three.

Sieg felt something crack inside of him as he watched it, and even more when he turned to look at Jeanne. The girl's smile was stretched thin, to say the least.

"Well, it can happen, right? Four times in a row, that is." She said, awkwardess dripping from every word.

Sieg nodded briskly, even while his stomach sank with discouragement. He was really wasting her time here; and to think she had been so kind to offer him to learn how to cook.

Jeanne was good to hide her unpleasant sensations, but it still didn't escape him how she held one of her hand between the other. She only did that to hide how she rubbed her fingers together, the gesture she always did when she wasn't happy how things were going and was trying to steady herself.

The boulder in his stomach managed somehow to sink even lower.

"No matter!" Jeanne smiled radiantly, the moment of hesitation already gone. "We have a lot of pastel still ready. Take more and try again, ok?"

Sieg pushed his gaze against the pan. "Ok." He grumbled.

He felt her hesitate for a moment at his side.

"Et-voilà! Look at this, Jeanne!" Taken by surprise, the girl turned to the other Servant using the kitchen in that moment, Sieg subtly imitating her.

Smiling wide, Cu Chulainn in his Caster incarnation was showing off a plate. The tower of pancakes that filled it seemed fit to be presented to the King of Heroes as breakfast.

"Wow! You're really good at this, Cu!"

Sieg felt that he should have shared Jeanne's returning enthusiasm, or at least, be happy for it.

He wasn't.

"Of course!" The Caster-class took a prideful pose, before shooting the girl a wink. "And you should see at what else i am good for…"

Again with that suggestive tone. Sieg couldn't really fathom what he was referring to. He used it often though. It had to be something important.

Jeanne had to get it, because she rolled her eyes, even as still smiling. "Cu, please…"

The Caster-class chuckled.

Seeing them banter like that, the connection they shared, sparked something of unpleasant in Sieg. He didn't know why, but he didn't like it. It made him feel… lonely, left by a side, together with something that could be irritation. Still, he should have been happy for Jeanne to smile like that after his mess, right? Yeah, right, his four-times mess. Guilt jumped into the mix. He fixed his gaze against the frying pan, trying to find an answer for those emotions in its spotless surface, or maybe to bore a hole in it for vengeance.

"Oh, we're starting to run out of powdered sugar."

"I will go to take more."

Sieg talked before thinking, just glad of having a chance to take a break from all that.

Jeanne watched him, hesitating for a moment, then turned to Cu Chuilann. The Caster-class shrugged.

Sieg left the kitched door close behind himself, the last image he had of his previous little purgatory, the hesitant gaze of Jeanne.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he began to march down the corridor. The lessening of tension lasted just for a moment, the feelings for the situation he had just left returning in full force as soon as he aimed his steps toward the right destination and stopped thinking about it.

He had to stop himself from kicking the floor in frustration. He really had let Jeanne down with that performance. Even that last glance of her, he had probably made her dubious about her ability to teach others.

He thinned his lips into a tight line.

He didn't think of himself like a genius or something like that, but everything he had put himself to he managed to get a good grasp to. He never found something he couldn't master with seriousness and commitment. Even then, he had to admit that it had always been about martial or study matters. He never even looked at a kitchen, never had the time for it since he aimed his vision toward other subjects. As a Homunculus, there was so much that he wished to learn, and time seemed to never be enough.

Still, he really had to fail to something so simple? The thought that he could have brought discomfort to Jeanne…

Brooding like that, he arrived to the entrance of the warehouse where the food was stored.

"Hello?" He asked, stepping inside.

A cavernous space filled with shelves loaded with boxes welcomed him. He looked about, searching for someone.

"I am here." Cracked a voice like sandpaper from somehwere.

A moment later, an old man that Sieg had never seen emerged from between the shelves. The Homunculus registered the thick, white beard it covered his chest and face, and the strangely bright, azure eyes peeking from it, before returning to business.

"Powdered sugar, eh?" The old man stroke his chin, or, at least, that's what Sieg supposed he was doing. His hand disappeared between the beard. "You're lucky. I was just putting the last box away. It should be… a-ah!" He took up a little box from a shelf. "So, how much you need?" He smiled at him, hands moving expertly to open the box and unpack the content.

Sieg thought about it briefly. They would need a little bit, but, again, was it wise for him to return? He would probably do better by just delivering the sugar and go, unburden Jeanne of his presence. It was a sad thought, but it probably was for the best. She was having fun with Cu alone. He would only spoil that. He ignored the strange irritation at taking notice of the Caster-class.

"Four packets, please."

The old man's smile faltered. "So few?" He asked, his thick brows knitting together. "I heard that you were three this morning to cook. That's too little."

Sieg wondered where he had heard that, but it wasn't really important and so he just shook his head.

"I am no good with it." He said, barely managing to keep the frustration from dribble out. That old man was probably busy enough to not need to hear him complain too. "They will be better without me."

Frustration and sadness, again, but there was little to do. It was for the best.

He expected the old man to just hand over the packets and send him on his way, but, instead, he put the box under his arm and watched him with an arched eyebrow.

"And why's that?"

Caught by surprise, Sieg was uncertain of what to answer. He decided that it didn't matter, and he told him everything.

When he finished, the old man's eyes were gleaming with mirth.

"Really?" He just asked, almost chuckling.

Sieg frowned. Was he missing something or this old man was fooling around with him? Still, he had read that it was common education to show respect to the elderly. "Excuse me?"

He was only more confused as the old man chuckled for real.

"You know Jeanne, right?" He asked.

Caught out-guard by the sudden question, Sieg forgot his irritation. "Well, a bit, i think." He wouldn't dare to presume to know her as well as she deserved, nor, well, everybody deserved their privacy, she even more.

"Right." The old man nodded. "Try to think about her, then. What would she think if someone she invited burned a couple of pancakes?"

Sieg tried to understand what the old man's point was. Why was he asking all those strange questions? Still, his piercing eyes, even while amiable, didn't leave room for protests and he was unwilling to start to argue, so he obeyed, and started to think. Truth was, it was easy for him to recall Jeanne's smiling face, her gestures, her composure. What would she think in that situation? What would she…?

Sieg paused.

The old man nodded, still smiling.

Sieg managed only to nod briskly before his newfound awareness pulled him away from there like a rope. Out of the room, into the corridor, he ran, barely keeping care to where he was putting his feet.

He cursed himself. Jeanne, getting angry over a couple of burned pancakes? The same Jeanne that he knew? What had gotten into him to think such a ridiculous thing? Jeanne wouldn't never get angry over such a little thing. She would think that she had ruined a person's day by inviting him there, to do something that he clearly hadn't shown being happy about. That's why he had seen her like that. What a fool he was!

The way back was short, but somehow it managed to feel like a thousand miles journey to Sieg, so much that he almost threw the door out of the hinges as he broke in the kitchen.

"Sieg!" Jeanne looked like she was unsure if being flambergasten or scandalised at his abrupt entrance.

Sieg took the briefest notice of it, stopping before her and taking one of her hands between his own.

"I am happy to be here."

Jeanne paused. Sieg felt his solemn confidence get pinpricked as the girl watched him with curious confusion.

"Sieg?"

"The pancakes… i am happy to be here to cook them!" Sieg thinned his lips in a determined line as he said those words.

They remained like that for a moment, their eyes locked as Sieg struggled to keep himself under control and Jeanne searched his gaze for an explaination at that strange behaviour.

The girl had to find something because her features softened in a glad smile.

"Is that so?" She asked. "I am happy to hear it."

Feeling all his nervousness melt, Sieg nodded, and smiled of his own. That smile had some properties of its own, he decided, and he liked them all.

"Can i try again?"

"Sure! Only…" Jeanne hesitated, smiling. "We still are running short of powdered sugar."

"Oh." Sieg startled. "I… i think i have forgotten it."

His expression had to be something, because Jeanne chuckled softly. "Don't worry." She said, taking his hand. "We'll try something else."

Sieg would have liked to protest, after all, he had gone out just to take that, but somehow those doubts didn't stick. Nodding, he followed her to the counter, where pastel and chocolate waited for more, probably disastrous, trials.

They got busy so quickly that neither of them noticed Cu slipping silently out of the kitchen.

As he made sure of closing the door without a sound, he shook his head, smiling at the cheerful banter of Jeanne and to Sieg's silent listening to her.

He knew when a battle was lost.


	3. Ritsuka Fujimaru-Olga Marie Animusphere

Ritsuka Fujimaru was used to strangeness. It was one of the many, many!, things you had to get used to when you jumped from "ye, don't care about you, peon" to "you gotta save the world now, good luck" all in the same day. Honestly, he felt like he even got decently good at it. He managed to greet the odd legendary figure met on the way to the mess without stuttering anymore, well, not much.

So, he felt with good confidence that if even him couldn't handle the unease that he felt walking in Chaldea those days, well, he surely could try to say something to someone, and for someone, he meant Olga Marie Animusphere.

"Ehm, Director?" He didn't like being the fidgety one, if only because it fell too good with his old "new guy" vibe. Still, he was right to feel fidgety in that moment, right?

The Director, lying with leisure over a couch that most definitely wasn't in the mess hall a week before, took in her mouth a grape, her features softening with pleasure as she closed her eyes.

"Mmh, so sweet…"

The young demigod whom lap she rested her head on made a soft smile that somehow managed to both make his face even more handsome that it already was and to make Ritsuka feel depressed. He had read about "looks that could pierce hearts", but, damn, his self-respect took a dive around that guy.

"Hey, i am talking to you." The Director opened an mirth-full eye, watching the demigod.

He seemed to shake himself from his thoughts. "Oh, i am sorry. I think i left myself get distracted fro a moment." His pure, azure eyes gleamed with sweet fondness.

"Is that so?" Marie chuckled. "And what could have possibly attracted your attention so much?"

"Something worthy to be looked at…" The demigod whispered, his hand moving almost absented-mindedly over the director's long hair.

"I wonder what it is…" The director looked pleased, but there was mischiviousness in her eyes. "If you get disracted so easily, maybe your standards aren't so high, mh?"

The demigod stopped his ministrations to look at her, the gleam in his eyes turned to mischief of its own. "Oh, but they are." He said. "I was just wondering if you would manage to pass them."

"And the answer is…?"

"Maybe… with a bit of help…"

"Help? And from who? From you?"

"You just have to ask…"

"Is that a challenge?"

"Is that a yes?"

"Mmmh…"

"GUYS!"

Both the demigod and the Director turned to see a red-faced, fuming Ritsuka that, between screaming his lungs out and get the "are you crazy" stares that he was getting in that moment, and having to witness more of that flirty, shameless talk, had decided to go all out with the first and to hell with it.

Except that the stares thrown his way from all around the mess hall made him even redder that he already was.

He coughed. "Director. Can i talk to you from a moment?"

Marie shook herself from staring bewildered. "Ehm, sure." She went back to sit, and turned to the demigod. "Do you mind? Only a moment."

The demigod's soft smile didn't waver. "Sure." He got up, stretching himself and somehow managing to make it look graceful and virile at the same time. Ritsuka made a point of ignoring how the Director seemed bent on eating him with her eyes. "I will go to talk to my countrymen. See you soon, Ritsuka. Director." That last word was underlined with intensity, and accompanied with an intense glance that Marie didn't miss to reciprocate.

Ritsuka mantained his peace as long as necessary for the Director to give her salutations. That went on, and on, and on, with her staring a bit too low than acceptable over the demigod's retreating form.

He coughed again.

"Oh, yes, yes." The Director looked like she was falling from the clouds. She took out a napkin from her clouse and waved at her with it. "Uff, that was hot. What a piece of…"

Ritsuka shot her an esasperate glance, managing shomehow to feel his face become even redder.

"Oh, ehm sorry sorry." The Director coughed, a light pink coloring her cheeks. "So, i hear you. What do you wanted to tell me?" She retook her serious countenance, and Ritsuka felt a twinge of relief to see her back at the way she usually was, even if it was somewhat ruined by how flustered she was.

But enough of that. It was his moment. He had thought long and hard about the words he would use to explain his doubts about the situation there in Chaldea; and now, it was time for him to boldly go on the offensive.

"Ehm, Director. I feel like there is something strange in Chaldea in these days."

And he chickened out and took the longer route. It was still ok, right? Right? He felt something crumble inside of him.

While passing the napkin over her cheeks, Maries frowned inquisitevely. "What do you mean?"

"Well…" Ritsuka raked his brain, searching for the right words. The first five hundreds were or had to do with lovey-dovey, Director and unproper behaviour. He went straight further, and even then he almost went in tilt. What he meant? What he didn't mean! And what hell she was thinking to ask that!

Calm, Ritsuka, stay calm. "Don't you, you know" He began slowly. "Have the impression that there have been a series of… changes around here recently?"

Understatement of the century.

The Director's gaze faltered. "Ehm… i guess?" She said awkwardly.

She knew it, and she was totally lying. He knew it. He knew it. He knew it.

"You really think?" He snapped.

Bad mistake, as the Director paused, and then dangerously narrowed her eyes. Always the Director, after all.

Ritsuka coughed, but he really really couldn't back down here. He started again. "Listen. I am sorry. I had a strange week, alright? I am just gonna start from the beginning." And hope that you hadn't your brain completely fried by that demigod stud. He made sure to keep the last part strictly in his mind. The Director was well-know for her chair-throwing.

Marie crossed her arms before her chest, puffing. "I am the Director here, you know. I know what happens in my base."

Ritsuka had his doubts about it, but nodded all the same. Chair-throwing. "I am still gonna do it."

The Director puffed again, but gave an affirmative gesture.

Ritsuka mentally exulted, or, well, he would if his nerves weren't about to snap.

"So, ehm." He looked at the surface of the couch for a moment, searching for the right words. Oh boy. That would be hard. Maybe God could inscribe the meaning of life and suffering on the sofa to give him a boast?

Nope.

He started.

"So, we were doing our missions. All as usual. Summoning Servant, going into the Singularities, fighting other Servant. I-i was doing my best, and, well, all was normal."

"Right."

Ritsuka didn't like much that even tone, he hoped for more freaking-out, but he kept going nonetheless. "Initially, i didn't notice that something was changing. I mean, when we summon Servant, it's pretty normal, well, not normal, but acceptable, i guess. Anyway, it's pretty normal to summon people that you would expect. I mean, we summoned Sherlock Holmes!"

He still had his qualms about that, but evidently not so the Director, that just nodded.

"It's a very renowned figure after all."

"Right." Ritsuka wondered how you jumped from the guy that throttled an Iron-skinned lion with his bare hands to a guy that was good to pull up disguises, but that was a digression. A very mentally bad digression. Move on, move on. "So, as i was saying, i didn't notice nothing strange when…"

"You're gonna come to the point one day?" The Director was tapping a finger impatiently.

Ritsuka felt something snap in his head. "I am trying, ok?"

"You're slow."

"I have started two seconds ago!"

"And you should already be at the point. You use too many intercalary. I already told you that. You never gonna find a girlfriend if you always talk like that. You drip awkwardness."

Ritsuka sputtered. "W-what… what does that has to do w-with this? I am trying to be serious here!"

"Me too." The Director replied smoothly.

Ritsuka glared at her, even as he felt his face glow hot.

The Director gave him a little smirk.

Moving on!

"As i was saying!" Ritsuka coughed, trying to regain composure. He was already starting to regret everything. When he replied to the recruitment flyer, nothing of this was mentioned in the job description. Why bound-world-saving heroes didn't get to go on strike, dammit!

The Director cocked her head in a gesture to go on. So he did, thank you very much.

"Some… strange summonings happen from time to time, so i didn't put much mind when we summoned… Chanakya."

The Director arched an eyebrow. "What's the problem with him? He's the founder of political science and economics. He even taught and advised the emperor Chandragupta. He's totally fit to be a Servant."

"Well, yes, totally, i guess. But… his Noble Phantasm is about a genie that can teach five hundred people at once about economics and politics."

The Director rolled his eyes. "So? We put him in work organization. He made a great add to Da Vinci."

"Yes. Yes!" Ritsuka waved his hands frantically. "I… i don't have nothing wrong with it, really. H-He's a great teacher and all that."

"So what's the problem?"

"Nothing! As i said, i thought nothing about it!"

The Director watched him like he was a fascinating enigma to resolve. Ritsuka made his best to ignore it. Why he felt like having just stabbed a puppy? He was just talking about a Servant, he wasn't even criticizing!

"A-at the moment at least, i thought nothing about it." He plowed on. "And i didn't think much even when after him we summoned Albert Einstein."

The Director nodded, clear admiration in her eyes. "A true paragon of human's scientific thought."

"Yes, totally." He winced to the Director's doubtful gaze. "I am serious!"

"It felt like you want to criticize two of history's greteast minds…"

"I am not…!" Ritsuka stopped himself. If he started screeching, this wouldn't end nowhere. "Listen, please. Let me continue, okay?"

The Director had her "i am gonna have a talk with the doctors about you later" expression plastered on, but still nodded.

Ritsuka pushed down the boulder lodged in his throat. "I thought nothing of those two. It can happen, right? I mean, two times. But then we got Aristoteles."

"A mind that shaped ages of philosophy."

Ritsuka ignored that comment. "And now he follows Iskandar everywhere because he needs to catch up with his studies, he says, and that he needs to learn respect again after all the shenanigans in Asia and the letters."

"A just endeavour."

Ritsuka couldn't take it anymore. "He always reads aloud!" He snapped. "Screaming! Always! All night and all day! And when he isn't doing it while chasing Iskandar around, he does it while he walks around alone! And he always does that! There isn't a place in the base where you can be safe anymore! He manages to arrive everywhere somehow! The only one that hasn't come to complain to me about it was Karna, and only because he's physically unable to do that! Iskandar came to me crying! Crying!"

"I don't see the problem." The Director shrugged. "It's a great chance to learn from one of history's great minds. And even so, i have put eardrums in the mandatory equipment. It's a manageable problem with that."

"Right." Ritsuka repressed the urge to face palm. He had to go door to door to call Servant to come into mission now, since using the intercomms became useless. He had lost count from the times he had almost ended being splattered by armored doors being swung open by over-enthusiastic heroes.

Plow through, Ritsuka, plow through. You can do this.

"Then, we summoned Descartes." He continued.

"Another pillar of our scientific history."

"He changed War room B in a lecture class."

"We needed one."

"Sure, why not. Then we got… Charlie Chaplin."

"Oh, don't start talking bad about him too. He's hilarious, and you know it."

"I am not talking bad about anybody! I am just… oh, forget it. Anyway, he immediately put up a show and he even managed to have a stage set up here in the mess hall. I mean, it's okay, yes, but…"

"Hey, talking of the fevil… it's starting just now! Woooo!"

"Go, strange little man with the hat!"

Ritsuka watched with deadly tiredness the stage at the back of the great hall, and the esulting crowd sorrounding it. It didn't help him that half of it was made up of Servant.

"He got a lot of success with the ancient heroes." The Director clapped as the music began, a pleased smile on her face.

"Yeah, great, that's good. We got the entertainment part covered with him." Ritsuka sighed. "And after him, we got Adonis."

"Oh, yeah." The Director sighed wishfully. Her gaze immediately dashed around the hall, found her mark in two seconds; and she waved with a dreaming smile to the demigod of before. Adonis, in the company of a squad of equally beautiful demigods and demigoddess, waved back with a radiant smile, and blew her a kiss.

Ritsuka felt his sugar level jump to the stratosphere as the Director almost swooned down from her chair, and a thunder bolt of dread as Adonis pointed him to a demigoddess whom he was exchanging words with.

"Hey, that reminds me." The Director leaned toward him cospitorially "Adonis tol me that Meridiana could be interested in you. Check it out."She elbowed him softly, gesturing to the Demigoddess waving at him.

Ritsuka felt his face go on fire. "Not my job description. Totally not." He grumbled, awkwardly waving back. "Anyway!" He shook himsef up, - it helped that the two demigods returned to their business, but he wouldn't ever say that -. "That's not the point and… please, don't look at me like that."

The Director kept the shit-eating grin for a moment yet, before rolling her eyes. "I don't get what's the problem is." She said, crossing her arms and frowning. "We summoned a couple of differently oriented Servant. So what?"

"It's more than a couple!" Ritsuka pointed out with a hiss. "Half of the gym section has been transformed into a complex of studies and laboratories! They are unstoppable! It's a invasion of egg-heads from all across time! We're all doomed!" Here, he had gone and snapped. But it was reasonable, dammit! Reasonable! Resonable!

"Ok, calm down, Ritsuka. Take a deep breath. Good. Now another, good. Feel better?"

He nodded, panting. The Director's way of managing freak-out always managed to amaze him. Not so much when he was the one in need of it, but, hey.

"And they never stop." He murmured, eyes wide as terrible memories returned once again. "They never stop discussing, arguing, asking, blabbering, studying, talking. They never stop." He turned to look at the Director. She flinched at his haunted eyes. "Al Kwarizmi entered in the middle of the night into my room for a week straight. A week straight! I had to have Caster put a seal on the door. He was unstoppable. He was deep in thought, he said, but then how the heck he managed to open all my locks?! And now i have the terror that as soon as i fall sleep someone will come babbling about mathematics. I cannot take it anymore!"

"Ehm, you sure you aren't taking this too seriously?" The Director looked between uncertain and spooked.

Ritsuka watched her for a moment, thoughts of running away screaming flashing in his mind.

"Ritsuka. Calm down. Take a breath, ok? Another. Good."

Ritsuka let out his breath. Alright, he was feeling better now.

"Director, i feel like you aren't giving this the importance it deserve." He said, now composed once again. "I mean, away from me to under stimate the weight of these great minds in humanity's development, but don't you feel that the Servant of Chaldea should have more… bite?"

"Ehm, maybe?"

Ritsuka felt a return of freaking out, but pushed it resolutely back. "When we summoned Poirot, he immediately got into a argument with Holmes and after it he was so insulted that he shut himself in one of the room, and came out only two days later. Then, when i tried to have him into a mission, he got back ache while getting up the stairs to the Rayshifting and had his back blocked for three days."

The Director squirmed on her seat. "Ehm, i am sure that it has been just a coincidence."

"And then we tried summoning again and we got Hitl…"

"Alright alright!" The Director threw her hands before her, stopping him in his tracks. "I get it. Something is slightly off with our summoning process." She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Incidentally, about that last one?"

"I noped out immediately and sent him back."

"Good." The Director sighed in relief. "Anyway." She took her serious composure back. "Yes, we had a series of… bizzare summonings, but there is no need to panic. We still have a considerable militar might and we're clearing Singularities one after the other, are we not?" She gave him a smile, challenging him to prove her wrong.

Ritsuka felt a vein pop on his forehead. "That's because…" He said slowly. "We summoned a guy in a bat suit that is doing all the work by himself!"

"What."

"I don't know!" Ritsuka snapped. "I cannot understand who this guy is! It's just a buff dude wearing a bat suit! He defeated Tiamat by spraying her from a tin can! He not even killed her! She's down in the prisons! I didn't even know we had a prison!"

"Ehm…" The Director recovered quickly from her bewilderement. "Ehm." She coughed. "I guess that there are some unconvential Servant helping us."

"The last five Singularities… he cleaned them up all alone. We have all the Round Table in a cell, all roped together like sausages. And in the next cell, there is the Queen Mary's Revenge with all its crew. And don't ask how it got there."

The Director almost fell down from her chair.

"And you didn't know it, didn't you?!" Ritsuka pointed an accusatory finger against her. Marie was speechless. "And i even know why! It's a certain demigod, isn't? You go all lovey-dovey, and Ritsuka has to do everything around here!"

He wasn't sure if laugh or cry at the Director's completely bewildered expression. She looked like a mix between a robber caught with her hands in the money and a beached fish.

"Well…" She blushed, looking everything but to him. It was a first, but Ritsuka wasn't in the mood to cult about personal victories. "It's just… we were going so well. I only… took a little break. That's all." She trailed off.

Ritsuka tried to actually register that admission. Taking a little break… from… saving humanity… Chaldea… Director… Something fizzled in his brain.

Awkward silence.

"E-ehm, anyway, it doesn't matter!" The Director tried to return on track, or getting away from it, with admirable, even if awkward effort. Ritsuka was unsure if admire or pity her. "We're getting through Singularities, are we not? That's what it matters! Whoever is that is doing it. That man with the bat costume or not, that batm…"

"Please, don't."

The Director flinched and stopped, putting up a pout. "What am i gonna say to the next Board? They're gonna shut us down and put all the budget on that bat-guy." She collapsed on the table, covering her face with a hand. She remained like that for a moment, before shaking herself up. "Alright, ok, listen." She started. "Maybe i have gone a bit out of the loop, i admit it." She waved a hand at Ritsuka's glare. "Ye ye. But we still have all the other Servant, right? I mean, we still are relevant, right?"

Ritsuka gazed at her.

Marie gazed back. "Please don't say what i think you're about to say."

"He took them."

"What?"

"That bat-guy. All the weapons of the anti-heroes Servant and a lot of the heroes' too. He said that they were too dangerous to keep them so armed."

"But… but…"

Gilgamesh passed by, chasing a guy in a bat suit.

"Give me back my Key, you heathen!"

"You held this power for too long, evildoer. I will keep until you learn to follow the law."

"I am the law, dammit!"

The Director watched them go for a moment, before turning to Ritsuka. He shrugged with the air of a man that had already given up.

"Half of the Servant had their Noble Phantasms confiscated. The other half has gone on strike against the people always making noise or they have been swept in and started studying or they are passed out for lack of sleep." Ritsuka listed impassively.

"I was asking myself why…" The Director let out a chuckle. "…the mess was so empty now." She chuckled again, or better, she tittered in a very little healthy way.

Ritsuka didn't feel she could blame her.

Let's plow through, shall we?

"So, me and Romani have tried to recalibrate the summonings. We ended up with a bit of people."

"A-and?" Marie looked ready to burst in histeric laughter.

"Well, we got the great-great-great-grandfather of Gilgamesh." He gestured smoothly for an old guy that looked like a dried tree during a particularly bad day, seated at a table close by. He downed by a tankard as big as a barrel, and all around him there were the fainted forms of Heracles, Darius the Third and Ishtar. "He out-drank all the heavy-weights, the Kings and even the demigods. After single-handedly drinking all our forniture of alcohol. Even that of the infirmary. The pure one." The Director raised a finger. "He saw the Flood." The Director made an "ow" expression.

Ritsuka continued. "After him, we tried with something more familiar: Camelot."

"Y-yes, we have a lot of experience with that, i guess."

"We got the castle's accountant."

The Director blinked. "Ehm, i am not sure i…"

"He said…" Ritsuka felt the fatigue catching up to him. "That there was so much heroicdness in that place that a bit has to have rubbed off on him."

"I-is that how it works?"

A little guy with a big book and big glasses and a nervous air passed by. "Master, have you seen the King per chance? He needs to review this accounts immediately!"

Ritsuka waved vaguely. "Try down in the academy wing. She was trying her luck with botany the last time i checked her out."

"Oh, thank very much… wait, he said her?" He trotted away, mumbling to himself and with the Director's bewildered gaze on his back.

"He drew up my taxes." Ritsuka said. "And Chaldea's accounting is better than ever."

The Director let out a small, hysteric chuckle.

"Up next." Ritsuka steadied himself. "Hulk Hogan."

"Excuse me?"

A giant with a wide blonde mustache soared by through the air in a mighty dropkick. "For freedom, brother!"

Vlad The Third left out a wailing as he was struck by the glorious hammer of righteusness.

Ritsuka didn't even bother to look. "After that, Mitsuhide Akechi. Got closer with this one, i admit it."

Akechi Mitsuhide passed running by.

"Get a taste of your own medicine, little bastard!" Screeched Oda Nobunaga while chasing him with a burning torch.

"She's chasing him from five days straight." Ritsuka commented. "We had to put down five great fires until now."

"Fucking dammit, Nobunaga. Watch where you swing that stupid thing."

"Six." Ritsuka deadpanned. There was a stage where even despair felt like nothing? Maybe he was close to enlightenement.

The Director just watched with abject horror.

"Then, we used Servant already summoned to try and summon more." Ritsuka gestured toward a close table. "We got Hassan'i Sabba The Last."

Hassan of Serenity, Hassan of the Hundred Faces, Hassan of the Cursed Arm and King Hassan sat there, all glaring daggers at a little guy in a ninja suit.

"Ehm, i guess that last assassin attempt was better left untried, ehm." He said awkwardly. "More drinks, please! Put everything on my tab!"

Ritsuka didn't even stop to check the Director's reaction. "We tried moving on modern history. We got Stanislav Yevgrafovich Petrov." He gestured toward a serious-looking dude in a soviet uniform.

The Director fell down from her chair.

"Ye." Rituka nodded. "The guy who saved the world, No Noble Phantasm though."

The Director's raised finger appeared from beneath the table. "That's not fair! He totally deserves one!"

"Agreed." Ritsuka plowed through. "Then we tried with something more sure to success. We interviewed a brigade of Servant and tried to find someone they could know."

"That sounds like scraping the barrel." The Director managed to return on her chair with titanic effort. The hysteric reaction had left its space to gloom and doom. Ritsuka didn't feel she could blame her.

He grudgingly nodded. "We got a young hero named Shirou. We tried summoning and…" He waved toward another table.

EMIYA and Young Shirou sat there, their heads clutched between their hands, each with a half-empty drink before them, listening to a version of them with round glasses blabbering something while moving through documents and a visual presentation.

"A timeline version where he became an accountant and saved milions by founding a health research."

"What's up with the fricking accountants!"

Camelot's accountant came by and greeted the blabbering Shirou, that replied enthusiastically.

"They became fast friends." Ritsuka completed. He felt desolate, and judging by the eyebags, the Director wasn't far.

"Hey."

They both jumped, and turned. Gilgamesh's great-great-great-grandfather was sitting at their table. He watched them both somberly. "You looked like you could get a drop. Here." There was a swish and somehow two big mugs appeared before both. Ritsuka managed only to blink before the Director threw herself over both with a muffled thanks.

"My Noble Phantasm." The old man said to Ritsuka's blank gaze. "Unlimited Booze Works."

"Moving on." Ritsuka sighed. "Afterward, we got Gandhi."

"Violence solves nothing."

"Dio."

"Wryyyyyyy!"

"Santa Claus."

"Stop ripping me off with all your little girls!"

"Inigo Montoya."

"I am Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

"Artoria when she was a baby."

"Nghè!"

"Sigmund Freud."

"I am telling you, mister Jekyll. I could cure you!"

"Leave me alone, goddammit!"

"And my grandmother."

"Did you eat today, Ritsuka?"

"Yes, Nana. Don't worry."

"Thank god."

The Director was almost sprawled over the table when he finished, ten empty mugs around her and the eleventh in her hand.

Ritsuka gave her a moment. He needed one too.

"There's someone, anyone, that can fight?" She eventually asked, tomb-like voice coming from somewhere inside of the messy hair covering her face.

"Well… our last try was with another timeline, and… maybe they can fight?" Ritsuka felt dirty.

"Who?"

He just gestured. "A timeline where everyone of Camelot are rabbits."

A brigade of rabbits in armours and coat of arms marched disciplinately by. A rabbit with a golden crown led them.

"To me, my rabbit knights!" He declared, waving a little sword. "We are off to fight unjustice, right wrongs and munch on snacks!"

"Hooray for Arthur the Rabbit King! Hooray!"

Ritsuka felt like a piece of crumpled paper. "After all the Artorias, Mordred has finally snapped, and now go around in a bunny suit, trying to get accepted by them."

Mordred in a pink bunny suit approached the rabbit squad.

"Mordred? For the milionth time, we don't have any places remaining at the Round Table! And i have already two hundred and fiftyfour sons! And this group is rabbits only!"

"…i brought snacks."

"The King reconsiders! Mordred, you're in. Bedivere, get out."

"Aw, nuts."

"They are… combative?" Ritsuka glanced at the Director. She didn't seem very convinced, if the wide-eyed, haunted look said something. "I mean, they take no shit from anybody."

"My King, look! It's Ozymandyas, the arrogant pharaoh!"

"On your guard, you villain! We shall avenge the people you exploited!"

"Mph, foolish rodents, to think you can take on the mighty…"

"We're not rodents. We're lagomorphs."

"Whatever. To think you can takn on my majesty and…"

"Lagomorphs. Learn your history, dickhead."

"HOW THE FUCK DID YOU CALL ME?!"

"Sir Lancelot! To you the honor to dispatch the foe!"

"Right away, my King!"

"I AM GONNA BURY YOU…wait, is that a rocket-launcher?"

Ritsuka didn't even flinch as the heatwave of the blast made his hair flutter. "For some reason they are heavily armed with modern weaponry."

The Director buried her face in her arms. "How?" She just asked.

"They found a genie's lamp during a journey and Bedivere mispelled the second wish."

"There's a lot to mispell there…"

"He has a bit of a speech impediment."

"I am foffy." Bedivere, or, better, Rabbivere, said, now seated at their table while Gilgamesh's great-great-great-grandafather gave a mug to him too.

Ritsuka vaguely thought that it was starting to become a large family.

"They took control of our food store and we can't take them back. Romani has gone to try and make them see reason, but it have been two days ago, and by now i think they have eaten him or something."

The Director seemed to deflate. Ritsuka felt that he should be a bit satisfied - he had managed to make her see the dreadful state of things, but somehow he felt like the only thing really accomplished here was streaming misery.

"Well, maybe they can fight?" he tried, barely believing he was actually saying it. How it came to him being the one trying to be encouraging?

"My King! There's that vacuum cleaner again!"

"Argh, that's terrifying! Retreat! Retreat!"

"Or maybe not." Ritsuka corrected himself, following the general retreat of the rabbit brigade with his gaze.

The Director slammed down the tenth empty mug. "We're finished…" She slurred, looking already shit-faced. "Weeeee'reeeee finished!" She complained aloud. "They're gonna shut us down!"

Ritsuka wanted to encourage her, but his strenght failed him. What was the point? Chaldea was at its end. The only consolation was that they could rest assure. Hopefully, the bat-guy would save the world. Hopefully. Well, not like they could hope for anything different. It wasn't like all the scientists they managed to summon could find an equation to save the world.

Einstein came barging into the mess hall.

"Guys! We found an equation to save the world!"

The general attention was on him instantly. Ritsuka frowned, trying to understand the secret meaning of those words. One of the wall exploded.

"Mortals scum!" Bellowed Solomon while he barged in, followed by his army of Demon Gods. "How did you manage to find the only thing that can defeat us? No matter! We won't let you stop our great endeavour!"

Ritsuka and Marie watched him, both blank. "Eh?"

"Mph, you have your work cut out for you, you demon." Gilgamesh's great-great-great-grandfather said grimly, getting up. He raised a gnarled hand. "To me, power of the Flood!" A tidal wave gathered behind him.

"Brothers! Give me strenght!" Hulk Hogan ripped his shirt, muscles bulging with power.

"You're not taking my grandchild!" Ritsuka's grandmother screamed, wielding a buzzing chainsaw.

"Another evil-doer to defeat." Bat-guy said, seeminly coalescing from the darkness, deeper shadow between shadows.

"Rally to me, my rabbit knights! War most terrible is upon us! But we will prevail!" The Rabbit King declared, raising golden Excalibur while riding a Panzer Tank Tiger.

"Hooray! Hooray for the Rabbit King! To battle!"

"You too, Bedivere!"

"Aw, nuts."

Solomon looked undanted, power burning around him like the flames of a star. "Foolish, humans and rodents, you stand no chance against…"

"Lagomorphs."

"Lagomorphs." Solomon didn't break stride. "You don't stand a chance against our supreme power. Disappear, together with humanity. Forever!"

A tremendous power was released, smashing against the assembled heroes, but still they stood firm, blocking it like a dam against a raging torrent.

Ritsuka and the Director watched. The Director took a long gulp, then passed the mug to Ritsuka that did the same, all without breaking vision.

"Argh, he's strong!"

"Hold on!"

"We cannot block him forever! Someone do something!"

"Leave it to me!" The Rabbit King took out a lamp. "Genie! My third wish! Put this dickhead into the trash!"

The genie, sporting very suspicious rabbit-like features, emerged in a blaze of light and thunder.

Still, Solomon smirked. "Foolish mortals. What do you think that this lesser spirit can do against…" POW! "Ow! My nose! He punched me in the nose! Not cool, man! Hey… what do you need that toilet for? Oh god, put me down. Put me… blubblublub… oh god!… blublublub… i am drowning…! Blubblublub… alright alright, i surrender! I won't erase humanity! Oh god! Please stop!"

And so, the mighty Solomon, that incidentally wasn't Solomon but a demon with his face, fell in defeat, and his army was scattered to the four winds.

"We won!"

"Yeeeeeaaah!"

"We saved humanity!"

"Yeeeeeaaah!"

"Bedivere, you're still out of the Table."

"Aw, nuts."

"Let's party! CONGA!"

"PEPEPEPEEEEPEPEPEPEEEE!"

And so the celebrations, under the form of a conga stretching its way through space and time at the beat of Southamerican music, began.

Ritsuka and the Director remained there, dumbfounded.

"More drinks?" Gilgamesh's great-greatsire asked, and handed a mug each.

The Director took it, then watched it silently for a moment. "You know what? Screw it!" She said suddenly. She downed it down in one gulp. "We saved the world! Let's partyyyyyyy!" And with those words, she threw herself straight into the thick of the party, where Adonis and company waited for her.

Ritsuka watched her go.

Gilgamesh's great-something sat at his side. "Thinking, mh?"

Ritsuka whimpered something.

"Do not worry. We're gonna have peace now. Because we are rabbits."

He blinked, registering those words. He turned to the old man. Only, he wasn't an old man anymore, but an old rabbit with thick whiskers and eyebrows. "You're a rabbit too, you know." He said, taking a bit gulp from his mug and smiling.

"Eh?" Ritsuka watched himself. Thick fur. And his hands were paws. And his face had whiskers and long ears and he was… he was… "EEEEEEEEEH?!"

Ritsuka woke up screaming.

In a panic, he turned left and right. The rabbits! The rabbits!

No rabbits. He was in his room at Chaldea.

"I-it was a dream…!" He said, panting. Relief hit him like a cold shower. It wasa dream! Thank god! Or not? Was he supposed to not be happy to have the world saved? By rabbits? Maybe? Oh, god.

The phone ringed.

Ritsuka freezed, a very cold kind of premonition running through him. He gulped. He recognized whom the number belonged to. Slowly, he grabbed the phone and pushed the reply button with trembling fingers. "D-Director?"

There was silence from the other end for a moment.

"We shall never speak of this to anybody and never again, alright?" The Director's voice was shaking.

Ritsuka nodded stiffly. "Agreed."

Another moment of silence.

"How the hell…" The Director's words trailed off. "Forget it! Good night!" The call was cut out.

Ritsuka listened to the beeping for a moment, before lowering the phone.

Rabbits…

"Oh, forget it." He said. No more of that. No more!

He dived under the pillow and threw the pillow on his head. Good night!


	4. EMIYA - The Lion King

"That's enough."

Those three words cut through the chaos of the battlefield like a cold blade. The Servant of Chaldea, embroiled into battle only a moment before with the soldiers of the Holy City, found themselves watching with surprise as the soldiers fell back as one.

Archer, following his veteran instinct and the istructions of the Master, fell back at once. The other Servant did the same and, together, they formed into a group, ready to take on whatever surprise was coming.

Still, nothing came. The soldiers of the Holy City remained in defensive formation, their enclosing helms and stiff postures making them look as inanimated machines.

Still, tension. Archer could feel it in the air, thick as a shroud.

Something was coming.

He frowned, then, as a familiar yet frigthengly different kind of aura hit his senses, his eyes widened.

Despite everything, it was almost nostalgic.

The shield wall opened, the soldiers stepping disciplinately out of the way.

The Lion King came forward.

The Divine Spirit wearing Artoria's face had an impassive expression, but her eyes gleamed with the chill of winter, even as they glinted with gold. A soft glow emanated from her slim figure, the air itself shimmering from it, like under a snowfall. Her aura was an enormous thing of silence and cold majesty; it wrapped around her like her royal cape did and covered everything around. It was like witnessing a star suddenly fallen between mortals; not life-giving, but uncaring, blinding, bleaching everything to its own color.

Archer frowned, feeling a knot in his throat not only because from the heaviness of that aura. For a moment, he had seen her like someone else; just a moment, before the terrible coldness of those eyes shattered the inner glow of his blurred vision.

The Lion King marched with slow firmness, assessing each of the Servant in turn. Archer felt her gaze boring into him like a ice blade. It lasted only for a moment, a cursory consideration, before moving to the next. He felt a twinge of mismatched emotions, but shoved it back. At his side, Hide gave a small grunt and shook his head, like a dog trying to get rid of water in his fur. Mephistopheles, the always smiling demon, hissed like an angry cat.

From beyond the King, the Knights came. Gawain, Mordred, Lancelot, Agravain, Tristan, Gareth. Covered in their full armours, they formed a semi-circle behind their King and planted their swords into the ground, a bulwark of spirits and steel. Archer couldn't help but think that even they seemed to have taken a bite from that bleaching light.

"Invaders." The Lion King's voice was cold as winter's breath. Almost bland in its intonation, and still firm and imposing. She didn't talk loud, but they all heard her like she was whispering directly in their ears. "We have grown tired of your foolish meddling."

Archer felt those words slip along his spine like a cold blade. He gripped his swords tighter.

"We hoped that the resistance offered by our soldiers would have been enough to turn you back, but your stolid conviction has convinced us otherwise." A wave of her hand, not even a glance. The soldiers step back further, disengaging completely from the fight. "Now, you shall face the mightiest force of our Kingdom. Our knights shall see to the end of your intrusion." Another gesture. The Knights of the Round Table stepped forward, each of them raising weapons as one.

Archer felt the wave of prana coming out from them as they passed into a real fighting stance like a boulder settling on his shoulders. They weren't remembered as history's greatest knights, each and every single one of them, just for show.

But they were Chaldea, and not even that was for show.

He exchanged a glance with Mephistopheles. The demon-homunculus grinned wildly in answer.

The smoke bomb exploded without warning, coming out from the demonic Servant almost magically fast hands. Without losing composure, the knights stepped back, avoiding getting caught in the blast.

The Servant of Chaldea dashed out of it just a moment later, each of them taking on a single knight in a clash of weapons and Noble Phantasms.

Archer barely glanced to take notice of his comrades entering in combat. He had come to put his trust in them and he knew that they trusted him. For that reason, all his concentration was on his target.

The Lion King stepped back from his slash, her impassive expression not changing in the slightest. Unfazed, Archer followed the attack with another. Kanshou blazed in a lightning-fast trust, too fast to be dodged, and clashed with a blade of light appeared from nowhere.

Even as surprise twinged, Archer kept moving. A crushing backhanded blow passed just barely above his head as he twisted down, just to return to attack with Bakuya. The blade of light intercepted it as well, and Archer found himself staring into the Lion King's cold eyes.

"My King!" He heard a voice call with what could be worry. He didn't know whom it belonged to.

"Enough." The Lion King replied. "Take care of the rest. We will deal personally with this one."

"Y-yes!": was the gruding reply, and then there was only the sounds of battle.

Archer, his concentration not faltering not even a second, managed to keep their blades locked for another moment yet. Then, the blade of light broke the contest with a swing, and he jumped back.

Landing at some distance, he rapidly took stock of the changed situation. The other battles were getting farther, probably his comrades trying to giving him time to defeat the one at the center of that distorted Singularity.

So, that was how it was. A 1 versus 1.

Good.

Since the Master had led them there, he had felt his usual cool being polluted by a strange mix of rage and sadness. The more he saw what those "knights" were doing, upon what their so called "Holy Kingdom" was built, the more it had grown, so much that even his iron-hard selfdiscpline was starting to get frayed by it.

And all that rage and sadness was directed without other chances to the figure now standing before him, like a river raging toward the sea.

"You did well to withstand my attack." The Lion King, still wrapped in her royal mantle, wielded a long sword that seemed made of light. Her pose exuded perfection. "… red bowman."

Hearing that calm, composed voice, feeling those cold eyes on him, made him set his jaw.

"Of course. I am not ready to lose to you." He took a stance. Energy began coursing though his magic circuits. "Besides, this is personal."

The Lion King cocked her head by a side. "Is that so?"

For some reason, Archer felt his sadness spike at those words. "Yes. Something inside of me…" He tightened his muscles. More and more energy flooded his body as his magic circuits flared to life. Something powerful and defiant was surging from inside of him, something made of rage and sadness and outrage. "…is telling me…" He raised his eyes toward the King, anger, pure and undiluted pouring from him like waves of heat. "…to not lose to you!"

The earth splintered and cracked under his dash. In a breath, he was upon his opponent, Kansho and Bakuya slashing the air like thunderbolts.

The Lion King was a pond of frozen water before that rage, her blade of light raising to intercept the attack.

Archer lost himself into combat, years and decades of battle experience guiding him blow after blow. His swords moved as fast as lightning, flowing effortlessly from an attack to the other like parts of him. He sharpened his rage and sadness into piercing points and sharpened edges and made them come crashing down into his opponent as a thundering river of slashes and stabs and strenght.

And still, it seemed all useless before the Lion King. No matter how complex the pattern, how quick the slash, accurate the movement or fast the prediction, wherever Kansho and Bakuya went the King's light blade was there to deny passage. Archer almost had the impression that there was a wall of swords to separate him from his opponent. And still, more than the way to the King's heart, he felt the burning wish to break those cold eyes, and the vice of pain that they clamped around his own heart. He wanted to… reach…!

A last clash, and he jumped back, retaking distance.

With a flick of will, he pushed back the growing frustration. He had to remain calm and focused.

Making his prana flare, he banished Kansho and Bakuya, now cracked and useless, and summoned another fresh pair.

He squared off his opponent. The Lion Kink looked absolutely unfazed, her blade point pointed toward the ground into a poised defensive stance. She still wore her luscious mantle.

"I heard that the Lion King wielded a lance, not a sword." He said, readying himself for another clash.

"Our will itself is a blade." She replied smoothly. "What you see now is just a materialization of it."

Archer frowned. So, her will given form was enough to destroy Kansho and Bakuya? As expected from the one standing at the top of the Round Table, that copy of it, at least. And that meant that she was taking him lightly, not even using her main weapon to fight him. That realization didn't give him the expected satisfaction. He wanted to reach to her, somehow, move her, break that damn gaze of her. He didn't even know why, but his soul itself was screaming for him to do it and like that he wouldn't have been able to do it.

"You won't be able to defeat us by bladework alone, red bowman." The Lion King's cold voice broke his train of thougths. "Defeat us and the Holy Kingdom will fall. Be late on it and our knights will slaughter all of your comrades. We know that you hide more than just little swords in your sleeve."

Archer didn't like that tone of her, but there was no denying those words. His comrades weren't strong enough to fight off all of the Round Table at the same time.

"No need to tell me." He murmured, taking back a battle stance. His magic circuits flared to life once more, the prana weaving into complex patterns as he summoned powers hidden within.

He wanted… he wanted to.. Reach…

 _An image of a young, blonde woman. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear what she was saying._

Archer frowned, a twinge of pain mixing with his memories, but kept the prana steady nonetheless.

"Something's wrong, red bowman?"

"Mph." He dashed forward once again, Kansho and Bakuya whirling once again.

"We told you already." The Lion King raised her sword. "You cannot defeat us with…"

The Lion King's phrase was cut off as Archer suddenly threw both his weapons like boomerangs. Unfazed, she raised her sword to block, but, as soon as the weapons made contact, Kansho and Bakuya exploded. The blast enveloped the Lion King and rose dust and debris, cutting off her vision for a moment. Making her prana burst outward, she blew away it all away, freeing her camp of vision.

"Clever." She murmured.

The battlefield was empty, but she didn't lose time searching for her opponent. Instead, she just raised her eyes up. Archer was there, almost invisible in the distance, but his prana shined as brightly as the sun. He pointed a bow against her, a twisted and spiraled sword nocked and ready as the arrow, crackling, bursting with energy.

Still, even as his expression was an emotionless mask, a conflict raged inside of him.

She could still see that woman in his mind, her image super-imposing itself on the small figure of the Lion King into the distance. It meant something for him, it meant almost everything. He wanted to reach for her, to listen to her once again, but… but… how!

 **Caladbolg!**

The Broken Phantasm was shot with a defeaning thunderclap. Roaring as lightning, it devoured the distance toward its target, space bending and twisting before its power.

The Lion King didn't even try to dodge. "As well as a sword, our will is a shield too." She said, raising her weapon high. The light forming the sword dissipated into a nimbus, only to reform itself above the King as a cloud of golden ribbons. "One around which even space and time find anchor."

Caldabolg impacted against the King's shield. The explosion shook all of the battlefield, engulfing the King and everything around her.

Archer watched it rage, his heart being painfully squeezed by the vision as more memories ran through his mind.

 _I am Saber and i answer to your summon. Are you my Master?_

 _I don't need a reson to save a girl!_

 _It's troublesome for a Master to harbour such thoughts._

The explosion eventually ended, and the dust settled. Archer widened his eyes.

Under the cover of her shield, the Lion King was unfazed.

"Not with swordplay nor with archery. You won't be able to defeat us with neither." The King said, the particles of light returning into her raised palm. "Time is passing by, red bowman. What…" She slightly bent her knees.

Eyes wide, Archer summoned Bansho and Bakuya.

"… will you do?" In a heartbeat, the King was above him, whipping around to slash with her sword.

Archer barely managed to block the blow with both hands, the sheer power of the impact reverberating through his bones. Teeth gritted, he managed to resist only for a moment, then he was blown away.

"Tch! Mana Burst…" He hissed as he raced toward the ground, cursing himself for not having kept that detail in the proper account; and to think that he knew very well that was the basic of the combat style of…

 _A blonde woman before him. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear her words._

 _Shirou!_

 _I won't stand aside and let people get killed!_

 _My True Name is…_

Archer flinched in pain as images and words flooded his mind. The Lion King appeared at his side, sword ready to strike. He barely managed to block and was knocked aside.

He gathered his body, trying to take control of his fall, to…

 _I failed, as a king and as a knight._

 _The Grail will fix this._

 _The past is…_

Those memories kept on bombarding him incessantly, spoiling his concentration. The Lion King appeared again, underneath this time. He barely had the time to dodge a grazing blow that would have taken his head.

 _This is my dream! Even if i fail, i…_

 _A faker is all you'll ever be._

 _Nothing of yours is real._

Following his istincts, he raised Kansho and Bakuya and braced himself. The Mana Burst from upwards almost smashed his guard aside, making him speed toward the ground like a projectile.

Gritting his teeth against pain and confusion, he saw the Lion King standing calmly close to where he was speeding to. She raised her sword, ready to cut him in two as he passed. The speed he was going was too much. He couldn't stop…

 _The Utopia she was reaching to was…_

 _Even if a faker's dream, i will keep chasing it. I want to be…_

 _Saber._

 _Saber._

 _Saber._

 _I… want to stay at your side._

 _I love you._

With a roar, Archer made his prana flare. His bow appeared in his hands and he shot a powerful blow against the ground, the blowback reversing his momentum. Gritting his teeth against the pain that seemed about to break his bones as the forces grabbing hold of his body collided, he forced himself to spin into the air. As the Lion King's blade grazed his side, he whipped his arm outward, Bakuya appearing between his fingers…

… and slashed!

The counterattack arrived a moment later, blowing him away. Complete focus returning after the onslaught of memories, he rolled into the air, and slided against the ground, stopping at some distance. Panting heavily, blood and burning pain marring him in various points, he watched his opponent.

Blood dripped to the ground.

The Lion King touched her cheek, right where a cut marred it. She passed a finger upon it, then watched the blood on it.

Her face was an expressionless mask.

"Marvelous." She said, with that cold, uncaring voice of her. "You survived our onslaught and even managed to land a hit on us. No, even more." She turned to look at him, almost appraising. "Having judged our superiority in raw strenght and speed, you moved our theater of battle to the sky, so that we wouldn't be able to attack you properly. A most wonderful use of prediction, battle senses and cold blood. We're thoroughly impressed." A flick of her hand, and the cut was bathed into golden light. As it disappeared into particles once again, it was gone.

Despite everything, Archer couldn't help but smile grimly. "I didn't think you would be so fast and powerful, though, catching up to me so quickly. You are… stronger."

The Lion King nodded. "Of course."

A moment of silence fell.

Archer felt it as a stiffling knot in his throat.

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

The Lion King cocked her head by a side, almost looking encouraging.

"Sab…" He paused, shaking his head. "No." He glared at her, even as painful emotions filled his chest. "You're not her."

The Lion King nodded. "That is so."

"What are you? Who are you?" He asked, every inch of him dreading the answer.

"We are what has come beyond death, and destiny. We are the oak sprouted by the dying seed. We are what has bloomed when everything useless has been left behind."

"Even…" Archer struggled to accept the meaning of those words. They couldn't come from her, not with that winter voice and cold eyes. "Even your dream? Even that has been left behind?"

The Lion Kinh shook her head. "It hasn't. We're still going to save humanity."

"By…" Anger was rising once again inside of him. "By sealing them in your spear? By giving to only a few an existence as… as statues?"

"Yes."

The glacial certainty of that single word hit him like a spear thrust.

"Why?"

"Because we see farther than you and your allies, and we know that this is the only way."

"It's not!" Archer shot out. "We're gonna save Humanity! Chaldea is gonna prevent this end!"

"You lack the strenght for it."

"You don't know that." He shouted.

The Lion King didn't answer immediately.

"From the beginning we knew that we wouldn't have been able to sway you." She said slowly, almost thoughtfully. "That is why we're not even going to try. You wouldn't ever be able to under stand, to accept. You're too innocent. Too ignorant. Too arrogant. Your Master, and you. You've always been like that."

Archer blinked. For a moment, only for a moment, instead of that figure of frigid light and majesty, he had though to have seen…

He gritted his teeth.

"End it! Now!" He screamed.

"No." The Lion King replied, unfazed.

"If you're not gonna listen, then i will…"

"Why are you still hesitating, Shirou?"

Archer paused, eyes widening. The Lion King had closed her eyes.

"The woman you're searching for isn't here anymore. There's the only the Lion King now." She watched him. There was no hate in her eyes, no rage, no remorse. Only that endless cold. "Our mind is set. We call upon you to do the same. Remain steadfast in your loyalty, Servant."

Archer flinched. For a moment, he remained stiff, his thoughts running back to his comrades. He left out his breath slowly, tension draining out of him. When he turned to glare at her again, there was no doubt in his gaze.

He raised a hand. His swords disappeared in flashes of light as he pointed the palm against his opponent. His prana surged as never before.

 **I am the bone of my sword.**

The Lion King nodded in approvation. Her sword disappeared into light once again, and the nimbus gathered behind her.

 **Steel is my body and fire is my blood.**

Archer felt sadness and fury flood his heart. One after the other, the memories moved once again before his eyes, and he left them, even as his prana kept increasing.

 **I have created over a thousand blades.**

Their first meeting, in an old shed of all the places. He still remembered the awe at seeing that ethereal figure, how her determinated expression had hit him.

 **Unknown to death, nor known to life.**

How they had battled, side by side, enemy after enemy in that terrible Grail War. The blooming of his dream, his under standing of how he wanted to spend his life, what path he wanted to follow. And at the same time, his coming to understand her, the massive pain hidden behind those unflinching eyes, the terrible weight set upon her shoulders.

The prana, coursing upon his body into bright lines, expanded forward like a tital wave. The world itself was warped by its contact, changing, changing, changing.

 **I have withstood pain to create many weapons.**

And now, those eyes that he learned to know and love, now they held nothing but endless winter. There was nothing of alive anymore beyond the unflinching steel. The heart was gone, and the sword that once was swore to protect was now revolved to despoil and suffucate. Knowing it hurt him more than anything else.

What would she say at seeing that mockery of her dream? For her soul and for his, he would put an end to it.

 **Yet, those hands will never hold anything.**

The prana burned as a strong as a wildfire, the world itself made blurred and distorted by it. It just waited, at his beck and call, what form to assume, what vision to give form to.

Still, Archer had to ask.

"Do you remember everything?"

The Lion King watched him for a long moment before answering. "Yes."

"And, even so…?"

"Yes. I am sorry."

Archer lowered his gaze. A wet trail ran on his cheek.

No more doubts.

 **Unlimited Blade Works!**

The world stood still for a moment. Then, it changed, with a rush. A new world came, brought into existence by the struggles and prayers of a warrior soul. The Sky was covered by gigantic gears, rusted and worn-out, but still they grinded on. The Earth was a wasteland without end, barren and devoid of life. Weapons, of all shake and forms, littered it, but, even as they were encrusted by dust and age, they were still ready for battle.

At the center of it all, the center of that new world, Archer stood, his expression grim and determinated.

The Lion King slowly took account of that new sight. "This bring us back memory, even to us." She commented. She turned to Archer, coolly appraising him. "It looks like your hesitation is gone."

"Yes." There was a flash of light, and a long, golden blade appeared into Archer's hand. "No matter the cost, i will defeat you here." He pointed the weapon against her. "The dream that you have discarded… i will make you remember it." No doubt marred his steady voice. He was ready for the fight, once again.

"Ah, Caliburn." The Lion King nodded at recognizing the weapon. "A marvelous copy. Maybe you think that seeing it once again would somehow restore us to our previous incarnation? What a naive thinking. All the same…" She reached at a side with a gauntleted hand. The space warped under her fingers, then they sank into it, into the air itself like it was water. "You showed us your determination. We shall show you our regards for it…" She grabbed something, in the beyond where her hand was, and pulled it back. The space broke as glass, falling into pieces as the Holy Spear was dragged by its owner into that reality. "…by fighting you with all our might."

Archer set his jaw as the King's prana washed over him. It was deep, and heavy, and frigid cold, like the northern sea had just erupted inside of his Reality Marble. Still, he wielded Caliburn, and the light of his courage, determination and memories sustained him.

He was ready.

The Lion King unclasped her mantle and left it fall, revealing her bright-white armour. "Come." She said, pointing her lance against him.

Archer didn't need to be said twice.

Setting his magic circuits to blaze with power, he began to recall all the powers hidden inside of his Reality Marble.

With a sharp wave of his hand, lances and blades embedded into the earth raised up like pulled by an invisible hand and shot out.

The King's spear whipped around, destroying them all with ease. "Is that all?"

Archer didn't answer. He raised both his hands. More weapons erupted from their resting places, raising up and then coming down like a rain of steel.

The nimbus of light of the King whipped and twisted, before taking the form of a shield. The projectile smashed themselves to pieces against it, not even grazing it. Suddenly, the King narrowed her eyes. A moment later, one of the weapon exploded against her shield, leaving a dent on it. Another did the same, and another, and another, and another. A rain of exploding weapons, all blazing with prana, came down on her shield, breaking it more and more.

The Lion King stood her ground for another moment, then, just as cracks was starting to form on her protection, she moved out of the way. Archer followed her with his palm and gaze, the rain of weapons following suit.

The Lion King flew close to the ground, zigzaging between explosions as fast as a bullet as more and more weapons came raining down. She traced a long curve, her cold expression matching Archer's focused one, before turning to fly in his direction.

Archer pointed both his open palms against her. More and more prana emitted from him as he awoke more and more of his arsenal. The weapons all around him answered his call, and he shot them toward the rapidly approaching opponent.

"I won't lose to you." He thought, not leaving his concentration falter not even for a moment.

The Lion King dodged and weaved, the projectiles speeding past her or smashing to pieces against her own weapon's swings.

"I wont…" Archer tightened his muscles, increasing the amount of weapons darting forward.

The Lion King dodged less and destroyed more of them, but didn't slow down.

"…lose…" The shooting weapons solidified into an almost continuous stream of steel and power. Archer focused more and more.

The Lion King stopped dodging completely, and pointed her lance forward. Light enveloped its point, and she dashed forward with renewed speed, crashing through any opposition.

The weapons were destroyed as quickly as they set out, only managing to slow her down, but still Archer kept on his onslaught.

"…to you!" With a roar, he focused himself at the maximum, the weapons now forming directly in the air around him and shooting forward. And still, relentlessly, the Lion King came forward. She struggled and almost ground to a halt, the continuous explosions almost repelling her back, but then her prana burst through, and she pierced through the last defence.

Fragments of broken and burned weapons raining around, she pierced forward… and found herself denied, as Archer had already dodged aside.

The King stumbled forward, her own momentum making her struggle to keep her balance.

Caliburn slashed, but, even if unbalanced by her charge, the Lion King smashed the attack aside, and pushed forward, searching for his opponent's heart.

The ground exploded under the assault, a cloud of dust raising to envelop both of the attackers.

Archer emerged from it first. His get-up was dented and broken, his torso was covered with cuts and bruises and his left arm hung limply by a side. Still, his expression was still a mask of grim determination, and he speed toward the gears-covered sky riding a broad sword like a surf board.

He stopped, right at the center of the sky, and turned to look where he had come from. The dust was settling, revealing the Lion King. She was struggling now. Frgaments of weapons, the same she had destroyed during her charge clung to her armour like clumps of iron, weighing her down. As she stumbled, spears of iron shot from the ground, hitting her. They couldn't penetrate her armour, but they lodged themselves against the fragments, blocking her at the ground. Her spear itself was blocked, caught in the barren ground during her last attack. The weapons embedded into the earth gathered around it like a vice, and the Lion King, no matter how much struggled, didn't seem able to pull it out.

Archer watched her grimly.

"I will make you remember." He said. "At any cost."

Saying those words gave a painful squeeze to his heart, but didn't shake his determination.

"There's nothing to remember." The Lion King replied, stopping her struggles. "I told you: i remember everything."

"That's not true." Archer hissed. He raised a hand. One after another, blinking into existence as stars, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of weapons appeared into the sky, covering it. "Everything you stood for. Everything you defended during your life. You've forgotten it all." The smile, the final smile that she had given him before their farewell shone brightly into his mind, excruciantigly painful and wonderful at the same time. "The Artoria Pendragon i knew wouldn't have given up as you did. She would have fought to save everyone, she would have fought with us."

As he told those words, he raised Caliburn. A brilliant light engulfed the blade, and when it stopped, there wasn't Caliburn in his hands anymore, but Excalibur, the holy sword.

"Do you remember this? This was the weapon she wielded! And she wielded it as a simbol of hope!" The light of Excalibur grew, it filled Unlimited Blade Works, it shone like the sun.

The Lion King said nothing, but retook her struggles, her cold eyes fixed on that luminous blade.

Watching her, Archer only felt a great sadness, and a great anger. He expired slowly. Everything he had in his Reality Marble, every single weapon he had ever copied, every single bits of power he had accumulated during his life was there, ready to be unleashed, waiting for his commands. Saber was there too, holding Excalibur together with him.

He widened his eyes. "Remember what you left behind! Remember it! EXCALIBUR!"

A shout, that was a desperate prayer too, and, to it, all that power was unleashed. The thousands of weapons covering the sky, the holy blade; they all come crashing down, raining all together, with all the anger and sadness and wishes of Archer behind them.

The end of that mockery, once and for all.

The Lion King judged it, and found it wanting.

She gave a final tug to her bonds, then clutched her spear, closed her eyes and whispered a name.

 **Rhonghomyniad.**

There was a light, coming from the farthest edges of the world, fastening the world together. It was a godlike power against which any mortal mean fell short. That light appeared into that reality, replying to the kind evocation of the King. It was a gentle light, and gently bleached and devoured everything it touched. The blades raining down the sky, the light of the holy sword. They touched it, and were undone. Like flowers caught by the winter wind, they just wilted silently, and in silence they faded away.

What it remained was only the lonely wasteland, the Archer without blades and without arrows, and the King, standing tall and unbowed, with her Holy Spear.

"Mph." The Lion King pulled the lance out of the ground with a sharp movement. Wisps of white smoke still came out of Rhongomyniad as its rotation came to an end.

Archer just stared, blank, unmoving.

The King turned to watch him. "We shall aknowledge your determination, but, in the end, you didn't learn anything." She pointed her lance against him.

Archer moved out of insticts, but his body, drained of energy, was barely able to move. He wasn't fast enough. The ray of light shattered the weapon keeping him afloat, and pierced his shoulder. Hissing in pain, he fell, but still managed to land on his knee. His hand shot to his shoulder, returning slick with blood.

His breath stalled as a lance appeared in his vision. Slowly, he raised his head, finding two cold eyes staring ruthlessly at him.

"A thousand weapons, indeed." The King's voice seemed to arrive farther than it should have been actually possible. Archer tried to move, but, to his dismay, found that his body didn't answer. His muscles were stiff as iron bands, his magic circuits overloaded and useless. "And still, they cried all the same to us, no matter how many you made." There wasn't hatred nor pity in the King's eyes. Only calm aknowledgement. Archer found himself unable to do anything but to listen. "Kill me." She said. "Destroy me. I deserve to die. I want to die. That's what all of your thousands and thousands of weapons were telling to us, every single one of them. The feelings etched on the core of your soul, etched upon each and every of them. That's why all you could ever do were only copies, and never something new." The Holy Lance fluttered closer. Archer found himself hold his breath. "I thought much about you after my ascension, my old friend, and many questions i have found asking myself." To his immense surprise, the King kneeled, bringing their eyes at the same level. Cold eyes, yes, cold as winter, and still, there was depth and knowledge in them, and a piercing understanding. Archer vaguely noted that she had put the us maiestatis aside. "Justice. Sacrifice. Saving everybody. You've always been saying those words, those precise words and never different. Why?"

Why. That simple question. Archer couldn't bring his mouth to reply. He felt his body as stiff as stone.

"You've never said: i want to defend my country; i want to protect children from being kidnapped; i want to save the victims of natural disasters; i want to bring comfort to those in pain. No. What you've said was: i want to be a hero of justice, i want to sacrifice myself, i want to save everybody." She cocked her head by a side, almost like she was trying to watch him better. "Who is this everybody you kept talking about, friend? All of humanity? Each and every humans? Even those undeserving? Even those that could be maybe undeserving? And who will decide who's deserving or not? You? You will be always watching, gazing, appeasing, deciding, judging?" Archer just watched her. The King continued. Their eyes were irrimediably locked. "Justice. What is justice? Preserving human life? That is laudable, but then, you would spare a criminal? A rapist? A thief, returning again and again to steal? He cannot find a job, nobody would give him a chance and he has to eat somehow, isn't? But he steals from poor families, struggling themselves to put food on the table. It would be justice to eliminate the thief? Or maybe it's society to be unjust, by allowing some people to feel hunger, poverty, despair? Will you fight society? Will you stand against everyone and everything? But then, if the majority wouldn't want for what you want, where justice would be? Will you save everybody? From what, and whom? Death? Poverty? Sickness? Pain? Suffering? Themselves? Will you be a hero? Will you stand before an adoring crowd, weaving your hand and smiling while people rot in dank cellars? Or maybe will you stand alone, pierced by blades, your words and actions nothing but a drop in the grand scheme of things, a useless life? Will you bring happiness to all of earth? Erase all suffering and death forever? Swirling a couple, a dozen, a thousand of swords? Will you defeat the evil dragon, save the princess and bring the happy ending? Or will you just drown in a world immensely more complex and difficult that this? What will you do?"

Archer opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think.

The King put a hand on his shoulder, the briefest flick of empathy gleaming in her gaze. "My dear, old friend, that still believes into fairytales. Where is the evil, just waiting for you to destroy it? Where are the loyal friends, ready to follow you into the blackest abyss? Where's the happy ever after?" She shook her head. "Why had you choose what it is impossible? Anything else you could have chosen, any other objective, and with your strenght you would have done great good to the world. And, instead, you aim for something that not even the Gods can ever hope to grasp." She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "What is that you seek in truth? Beyond these empty words without meaning, what is that your heart really yearn for?" She thinned her lips into a line. "We'll tell you what the truth is." Archer would have flinched at the weight of those words, if he would have been able to. "You're still there, aren't you? A scared, lost child, trapped between burning rubble, waiting for death to come. Because that would be right, isn't? You should have died with all those people. The world stopped being right when you survived, and who'd want to survive in a crooked world? That's what all your copies cry for: give me death. Put the world right. Kill me. Destroy me. And still…" Her eyes hardened. "The son of Emiya Kiritsugu cannot die a meaningless death, can he? Because Emiya Kiritsugu was a hero, and heroes' thriumphs aren't spoiled like that. You wanted to die, you wanted to destroy yourself, but any death wouldn't do. As the one that the hero saved, you needed to go in pieces while chasing the greatest of endeavour: to save everyone. Not even once you thought you could fail: no, i will endure the burden. No, even if i remain alone. No, even if i didn't manage to accomplish anything. Not even once you thought that it could be a defect, coming from that arrow still lodged in your heart. Always so arrogant."

Archer felt a stab in his chest. Almost disbelieving, he turned to look down, to the spear sunked into his chest.

Mind reeling, he raised his head. The Lion King was watching him intently, her hand tightly grasping his shoulder.

"We shall free you, since you cannot free yourself."

Archer knew that he should be dead. Instead, he felt the prana of the Holy Lance radiate in his heart. And understood what was about to happen.

"Wait…!"

The Lion King didn't reply. The prana bursting from Rhangodomiant ripped through Archer's core. His muscles went crazy, but the King's grasp ddn't allow for him to move away. He felt it, that ripple of energy, as it resounded inside of him, deep, deeper, until touching his deepest core, where all of his life's work was stored. Unlimited Blade Works quaked under the touch of the Holy Lance. It rumbled and creaked, like an old casket come under a storm. For a moment, it seemed like it would withstand it.

Then all of its contents flew to pieces.

Every sword, every spear, every halberd, every weapon and Noble Phantasms; all the copies that Archer had ever made and stored during his life, each and every single one of them crumbled to dust like they never existed at all.

What remained was only a barren landscape, with a blue, empty sky.

The Lion King gave gim a nod, then drew back. Archer winced slightly as the Holy Lance was extracted from his chest, but, when he went to touch it, he found only unmarred skin.

He raised his eyes, looking almost surprised. Unlimited Blade Works was empty. There was a hole where there had always been something.

The Lion King was clasping her mantle back. She gave him a glance with those cold, unfeeling eyes of her. There was something that could be called severity in them though.

"No more copies." She said. "From now on, do something that it's really your own."

And just like that, her mantle whooshing around her, she gave him her back and walked away.

Archer would have wanted to call her back, to argue, to fight, but his body was devoid of energy, and his mind was empty and he was tired, so deadly tired.

He fell on the ground with a thump, darkness rushing to embrace him. He couldn't reach her. He couldn't stop her. He couldn't call her back.

He had been defeated. Completely.


End file.
